A Glitch in the Mind Palace
by Of Sun and Rain
Summary: When Sherlock inadvertently walks into an explosion, head trauma leaves his skills of deduction compromised. Details from the explosion are projected on a young girl; a girl who happens to be dead. As Sherlock and John race for the truth they must face one undeniable question: what if the explosion was only the beginning of a murderous web? What was Mycroft's role in this?
1. Chapter 1: An Explosion

**Chapter 1: An Explosion**

_I really do despise your poorly disguised attempts at monitoring me. Turn your security cameras away from my general direction, or I will be forced to take measures—SH_

Sherlock pressed the send button of his phone and awaited the reply. As he wandered through the streets of London, he had a vague suspicion that the security cameras along the streets had all been pointing towards his general vicinity. It was only when he walked into the center of the open Business Square was his paranoia confirmed. Cameras from all 360 degrees around him were indeed pointed in his direction; even the automatic rotating cams were paused to face him. Of course, he knew exactly what this was; only the British government could effectively paralyze the security systems of four corporate buildings for one target.

Right on cue, Sherlock's phone gave a singular buzz. _Don't be so fussy, brother. Better security cameras than secret agents, correct?—MH_

Sherlock smirked, taking another look around. The cameras had yet to change positions; Mycroft had no intention of releasing his oversight this time, meaning he would have to run to escape his brother's eyes. At least it gave Sherlock a game to play while John was visiting Harry for the day. It would relieve his boredom for about…an hour or so, but even that wouldn't be enough. It was never really that hard for him to evade his brother's security systems, and this time the security was meant to be more bothersome than usual.

It was no surprise that Mycroft had once again elevated his monitoring status. It was the general practice whenever John left Sherlock alone for more than two days. Mycroft would hear of John's days away from the flat, and suddenly there would be ten extra hidden cameras in the 221B Baker Street flat. Of course, Sherlock took great pleasure in performing more acid-based experiments or human dissections on those days, just to make his older brother squirm.

_Your agents are just as obvious as your security cameras. I repeat: turn the cameras away or I will be forced to take measures—SH_

_Pray tell, what measures would those be?—MH_

_I will break into your offices and force those cameras off myself—SH_

_I highly doubt you could—MH_

_No you don't. And anything of interest I find in those offices will be mine. Like files on the experiments taking place in the Baskerville facilities; I have not forgotten about those—SH_

Sherlock gave another smirk as all ten cameras slowly (and almost reluctantly) twisted away from his figure. Dropping his phone back into his pocket, he took a moment to observe his environment. It was a sunny summer day, the blue sky brightening the white-gray concrete square. Four corporate buildings surrounded him, each enclosing one side of the square with its high walls of dark tinted glass. Food vendors were parked along the edges, where business men and women in their dark suits sat on granite benches and enjoyed the light breeze and clean air while on their lunch break. It was a relatively simple environment: within two minutes, Sherlock found six cheating women, four gambling-addicted men, five binge alcoholics, a pyromaniac, and only two people of superior intellect (both of whom stood observing the same scene with a much weaker version analysis of the people around them; Sherlock always recognized those with better skills of observation).

With nothing else to do in the Business Square, Sherlock began to make his way towards one of the exits. Once again, he was bored. Although he had won against Mycroft, part of him wished his older brother had pursued the game; it would have been fun to break into Mycroft's office, if not just to annoy him. So much so that at that moment, Sherlock decided that would be exactly what he would do. He collected his thoughts, strategizing which office to break into first and the most creative way to do it. Just when things were beginning to get interesting, something managed to break into his thoughts.

An explosion.

Sherlock's mind immediately processed the moment in three stages: there was the deep initial boom of a detonation, followed by the deafening whoosh of the explosion itself, and the sound of concrete cracking and glass shattering. A strong force flew from the source of the boom, knocking Sherlock and many others down to the ground. The business men and women within the square itself were screaming, running away from the deep gray smoke that filled the air in panic. The smell of smoke and dirt and dust filled Sherlock's lungs as he simply remained there on the ground watching the pandemonium around him. Rubble was beginning to rain down on him, and the sounds of concrete crumbling permeated the ringing air. As he stood up, he mentally calculated the time before the north concrete building would collapse on itself. He gave it four minutes.

Suddenly, he felt the smoke and dust next to him shift in the air; a feminine figure rushed past him, long dark hair flying behind her as she ran directly towards the north building. The blast of the explosion had slowed his reaction time momentarily as he watched her figure fade into a shadow in the dust. Mind racing, his body reacted immediately with one thought: _who runs directly into an explosion?_

He caught up with her within twenty seconds, grabbing her wrist and jerking her to a stop. As she turned towards him in surprise, Sherlock saw her with perfect clarity: her small face was framed by that dark hair; a teal skirt sat along her thin waist, and a loose white t-shirt hung against her thin shoulders, caked in dust. Dark wide eyes stared at him with fear and urgency. At first glance, she had to be only nineteen. She was panting heavily, pausing only once or twice to cough the dust out of her esophagus.

"What are you doing?" she yelled out against the ringing sounds of the explosion. "You need to get out of here! Let me go!" She tried to pull her wrist away, but Sherlock's grip held firm.

"Who are you?" Sherlock roared, pulling her closer as she tried once more to escape his grasp. He leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers. "Answer me!"

Realizing she wouldn't be able to fight off the man holding her back, she looked at him desperately. "That doesn't matter now," she hollered. "Let me go, please! You need to get out of here. It's too dangerous."

"What have you done?" he yelled at her, tightening his grip on her small wrist. Her eyes grew in horror; so she did play a role in this explosion. "What did you do?" he repeated with irritation and intrigue.

"I—"she started, but there was another boom and another shockwave, as if a second explosion went off. More dust flew in the air, and her long hair flew about around her. "It wasn't supposed to go like this," she cried out, screaming to be heard over the growing sounds of concrete falling. "Nobody was supposed to get hurt. I have to get in there; there are innocent people in there, please, I have to help them."

"Just tell me who you are!" Sherlock parleyed. When she stared at him dumbly, he screamed "Who are you!?"

She looked over her shoulder, coughing once more to get the dust out of her mouth. Sherlock himself was starting to feel the effects of the smoke himself, but he held her twisting wrist firmly. Something wasn't right here; this girl was entirely out of place. Sherlock could see that her desperation to get into the building was one of extreme passion. Her eyes beseeched him to let her go. Her mouth was parted slightly, still panting as the adrenaline pumped through her veins.

She looked him over, debating whether or not she could trust the tall dark figure who had grabbed her so suddenly. His sharp eyes pierced into her own, giving her a chill. The dark mass of hair on his head was caked in the white dust, as were the shoulders of his dark shirt. There was nothing kind about him, and there was nothing threatening either; it was a more curiosity and interest than a general concern for her wellbeing. But that was the least of her concerns in the moment. Sherlock watched as her eyes made the decision to trust.

"Alice Claireborne."

With that, Sherlock released her wrist. There was a pause as they both stared at each other momentarily; a mutual curiosity at the strange nature of their encounter under such unusual circumstances. She nodded at him once, saying a clear "thank you" before turning around and continuing on through the smoke, running straight into the source of the explosion and shoving all the other businessmen and women out of her way. He followed her with his eyes until the shadow of her figure disappeared just as quickly as it came.

He turned around, seeing no point in following the girl into the collapsing building. He coughed, taking in the scene around him. The sound of falling objects around him grew louder and louder; larger chunks of concrete were beginning to hit the ground. One rolled directly beside him, narrowly missing his lean frame. He sensed another one bounce behind him, stepping to the side to avoid it.

The moment he stepped to the side, though, a large force ran into him from behind. Before he knew what hit him, he was on the ground, the dust above him whirling around. Under his head was the solid concrete, now jabbing into his skin. He heard the steps of a large businessman quickly running away from him, yelling something of an apology as he left for safer ground.

He tried to push himself off the ground, but his body refused to cooperate. Every attempt he made to lift his torso was followed by a floundering of the arms and legs, both of which were simply weak to move. A deep ache was permeating through his throbbing skull; he wouldn't be conscious for very much longer. His vision was starting to get fuzzy, and part of him knew it wasn't just because of the smoke flying around. Sensing his physical limitations, Sherlock took one last look at the explosion around him, finding a cave-like crook under one of the fallen chunks of concrete. He rolled himself under it, coughing as the bits of dust and dirt flew into his mouth and eyes.

Giving off a deep groan, he held a hand up to his head, feeling the sticky blood that had already seeped out of a cut; a mild gash, but a wound nonetheless. It was what was happening under the bruise that worried him. There was another thud around him as more concrete covered the open side of his makeshift cave. He was enveloped in darkness, only a small bit of gray light able to seep in. Coughing more heavily, the whirling in Sherlock's throbbing head became worse, and the dizziness was becoming more and more overwhelming. He realized he could very well die there, under all the dust and concrete, which was a rather anticlimactic way to die considering he had already faked his own suicide once before. "Sorry John," he muttered between the hacking, trying to think of a way to convey to his only friend that this 'death' was not meant to be an ironic joke.

There was a singular buzzing in his pocket, and Sherlock pulled out his phone. The light of his phone's screen blinded him momentarily, and he gave his eyes a second to adjust before reading the message.

_Where are you? Reply immediately if alive—MH_

Sherlock gave a groan, cutting his answer down to shorter phrases. It was becoming harder to maintain control of his consciousness, and he knew he had very little time before his body would give up on him. As much as he hated to depend on his brother, this was not the time to be proud.

_Location unknown; under concrete. Currently alive. Unable to move. Hurry up—SH _

Under all the rubble and cracked concrete and scraps of metal and shattered pieces of glass, Sherlock Holmes lost consciousness, falling into total darkness and utter silence.


	2. Chapter 2: Darkness

**Chapter 2: Darkness**

"Sherlock…Sherlock?"

A familiar voice seeped through the black unconsciousness, dragging Sherlock out of the nothingness. His mind was numb, a strange sensation for the man who's mind could never stop running. He was vaguely aware that his body was moving, rolling along on a smooth surface at a quickening speed. A fog surrounded his general consciousness; nothing was clear except for the voice, a voice that never stopped calling his name.

Suddenly, he was aware of something foreign under his skin. There were tubes in his arms; generally not a good sign. He could feel a number of hands on his body, each coming and going without any warning. Another needle was pricked into his arm. Sherlock hated it, the feeling of claustrophobia starting to suffocate him. It was one thing to have a person touch him; it was a whole other to have multiple unknowns contacting him all at once. He wanted to scream, to tell everybody to move away from him, far away. But each effort to do so was rendered useless; his vocal chords refused to cooperate. He tried to move his arm to dislodge the needles, but they were held down by some sort of restraint. As were his legs.

The claustrophobia was getting worse, a mild panic setting in over his disoriented state. Control; he needed to regain control somehow. He couldn't breathe. He felt his chest heaving, a dry gasp escaping from his throat (now he could make a sound…still useless). Something was slipped over his mouth, a rush of oxygen flooding through his trachea and into his lungs. Relief, for the time being. But at least the new source of air allowed him to think more clearly about the situation.

_Rolling motion…IV tubes…arm restraints, and restraints over my chest now that I think about it…breathing mask…I'm in a hospital, and from the smell of it, St. Bart's. _

Hazarding a look, Sherlock opened his eyes, a white light stabbing his vision. Instantly, he realized his mistake: a throbbing in his head suddenly took control, the pounding becoming too painful to ignore. Pain pierced his forehead, stabbing through his skull with agony. Through the haze of the neon lights above him, Sherlock saw a face looking over him with immense worry. Large hazel eyes; those familiar eyes gleamed at him from above. It was a hazy image, but the sound of the voice filled in any doubts about the person's identity.

"Sherlock, you are in St. Bart's emergency ward," John said, his voice trying to remain steady. He was breathing heavily, his mouth panting as he moved with the bed; it was obvious that he had run from Harry's to be by Sherlock's side. The lines on his face were creased with a concerned disposition.

"Everything's going to be alright," he said quickly. "Jesus, what happened to you?"

Sherlock was about to make a cynical remark, something to prove to his friend that he was quite alright and that there was no use in putting him in the hospital, but the blurriness in his vision worsened. Suddenly, Sherlock could not remain awake for any longer. He struggled violently against the fatigue, trying to call out to John, cursing his body for its uselessness.

The pounding overtook everything; his eyes closed and his thoughts were paralyzed. The last thing he heard was John's voice desperately calling his name: "Sherlock! Sherlock…"

The darkness of his subconscious pulled him back in, wrapping his reality in silence.

* * *

Sherlock felt smothered in the darkness, the nothingness holding him captive. Struggling for what seemed like an eternity, he fought his way forward, trying to reach out and grab anything that would let him hold up, that would stabilize his spinning mind. But it was like swimming in the middle of the ocean in the middle of the night; no matter how far he went in any direction, there was no end to the silence. The black went on and on and on for what seemed like forever. If he didn't watch himself, he could feel himself slipping away, fading off into some oblivious nature. So he kept fighting, pushing his way around the boundaries of his mind until something would give. He had to keep fighting; he didn't know why, but he had to keep going. He just had to get out of this darkness.

Because the darkness scared him. The darkness scares everyone, even the great Sherlock Holmes.


	3. Chapter 3: I'm Fine

**Chapter 3: I'm Fine**

With a gasp, Sherlock jolted upright, his eyes opening to the blinding white light of a window. Immediately, blood rushed into his throbbing head. It was pounding furiously with an overwhelming dizziness that begged him to fall back and return to the darkness. He fought against that impulse, though, squeezing his eyes shut to shield his vision momentarily. Clenching his fists, his skin tightened around the knuckles, the first solid sensation of reality he could feel. His breathing was labored, each intake of air only met with a burning in his throat. But coughing would only inhibit his oxygen intake, and the last thing he wanted was to lose enough oxygen to return him to that unconsciousness.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to the right. There sat John, in a plastic waiting chair, looking up at him with wonder. From his disheveled hair and wrinkled clothes, it was quite obvious his friend had never left his side; perhaps only once to get a cup of coffee, but that had been hours ago, as Sherlock saw from the Styrofoam remains that laced John's fingers and nails as he had torn the cup in boredom and worry. Looking to point that out, Sherlock made to say something, but John instantly threw his magazine to the side and stood up, staring at him with relief.

"Sherlock," he began, but he couldn't continue, shocked that his friend had suddenly returned to the world of the living. It only took Sherlock one look to understand that John was happy to see him. And, to be quite honest, Sherlock was relieved to see him again too.

"John."

"Are you alright?" The deeper wrinkles around John's eyes confirmed Sherlock's suspicions; he hadn't slept in twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven hours.

"Never better," he nodded his head at the grinning doctor, flinging the sheets off his legs and swinging them over the edge of the hospital bed.

"Oh no you don't," he said sternly, pushing Sherlock's shoulder until he fell back onto the pillow once more. "You are definitely not getting up after all that." John grabbed the chart from the front of the bed, pushing a small alert button on his way. As Sherlock heard the beep, he looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room, noting all the tiny geometric patterns that created the gaudy color above him. While normally he would fight back at John, he could not deny that all he really wanted to do was lie down again; simply threatening to get out of bed had been nauseating.

"You're a bloody brilliant man, rolling under that concrete nook," John continued. "Saved your life. Then again, only you could escape a collapsing building without any broken bones or smashed limbs and then wake up from a comatose state trying to leap out of bed."

"How long was I unconscious?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring the exaggerations.

"Two days."

He jarred slightly at that. Had it really been two days? He felt like he had been in that black hole for more than two days…

"Sherlock," John said as he clicked out his pen. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. I need you to answer them as clearly as possible."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, really only wanting to put his clothes on. The hospital gown seemed highly unnecessary, and the room itself was actually quite cold once he had pulled the sheets away. Had it been any other doctor tending to him, he would have simply walked out of the room. But it wasn't just any other doctor, and it seemed easier to appease John than to worry him any further.

"Are you conscious?"

"Yes."

"Any pain in your extremities?"

"None." But his arms and legs were covered in new cuts and gashes for some reason.

"Any headaches?"

"No."

"Are you seeing spots?"

"These ceiling shapes have plenty of squares."

"Are you hearing things clearly?"

"Your voice, the heart monitors, heels clicking outside the door indicating a tall woman weighing about 60 kilos happily going down the hall to her dying husband—"

"Do you have any strange tastes in your mouth?"

Sherlock sarcastically licked his teeth. "Calcium."

John scribbled down the word before looking at Sherlock incredulously. "Hang on…"

"Yes, John, that was a joke. Continuing."

"Any headaches?"

"You're being redundant; you already asked that."

"Answer it again then."

"I hate repeating myself."

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Stop being a child. I'm trying to see what damage has been done."

"There is nothing wrong with me, John. Look," Sherlock waved his arms around. "I can move. I am perfectly fine."

"You don't need to prove you can move; I can see that already. Besides, what I'm most concerned about is your head."

Sherlock clenched his forehead, letting his face fall into a disconcerted frown until he realized there was indeed something covering his forehead. Reaching up, he felt a piece of cloth wrapped around his skin tightly, his curls loosely hanging over them. Running his fingers along the fabric, there was a denser area towards one corner. As he found the pin holding everything together, he began to unwrap the head bandage.

"Ah, no," John chided, pulling Sherlock's hand away from it. "You should keep that on." But Sherlock's fingers returned to the denser area, where his fingers suddenly felt sticky. He looked at his hand; nothing was on it now, but there was something familiar about the sensation he had just felt. Red flashed in his vision.

Fingers stained in blood, blood from his own head.

The memories flashed into Sherlock's mind. It rushed through his thoughts, leaving pictures blurring through his vision. He allowed his eyes to glaze over, processing all the information he could: the text messages, the explosion, the smoke, the girl, his fall.

John watched this pause with deep concern, scribbling about this spacing with an exclamation point on the chart. He coughed once before asking "any lapses in memory?"

Sherlock blinked twice before turning back to John. "Not anymore."

John put down the chart, his eyes filling with worry. "Not anymore? Sherlock, are you—"

The hospital door swung open, and a figure in a white coat strode in. Sherlock glared coldly at the intruder before flashing back to John. The glare continued as this strange man strode over, holding his hand out with a stable gesture and a nod. Sherlock's eyes narrowed with aggravation at their familiarity.

"Dr. Frobisher, sir," John greeted, handing the chart over to the grey haired man. He glanced over the medical charts through wiry glasses and a dull countenance. "Sherlock, this is Dr. Richard Frobisher; he was actually one of my professors when I trained here. Sir, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flat mate."

Frobisher lifted an eyebrow. "My dear boy, I didn't know you were—"

"And platonic friend." John corrected with an embarrassed cough. "Anyways, I just wanted your secondary opinion on his condition."

"I am fine," Sherlock grumbled, to which both doctors glanced at him with doubtful expressions.

Turning back to the doctor, John continued. "I began the initial examination on mental facilities, and so far he seems to be functional…"

The old man nodded, flipping through a file and conversing with John about some x-rays and brain scans. In the meantime, Sherlock decided to do a test of his mental facilities on his own, this one on Dr. Richard Frobisher.

_Obviously a neurologist; when it comes to the x-rays, his eyes never shift below the upper third portion of my anatomy. His hand is angled so the x-ray is almost vertical; he has no intention of viewing anything below the neck region. More inclined to view brain scans than x-rays, I might add; he's squinting at the x-rays simply because the prescription on his glasses are meant to analyze larger prints. _

_Arms are fairly toned, considering his age. His legs, however, are not built to the same standard as the arms. The backside of his neck is tan: he prefers an outside sport. So, he is consistently doing an activity that can be done at his age and done sitting down…rowing; he enjoys rowing in his spare time. He also enjoys seeing a nurse in his spare time at the office: there is a shade of lipstick on the edge of his collar, and only a nurse would leave the stink of antiseptic on top of his cologne. I know the antiseptic is from the nurse rather than from his own precautionary measures because he is not operating today, he is only attending; if he were operating, he would have taken off both his class and wedding ring. _

_ Obviously his marriage isn't going too well, probably due to the fact that he is an alcoholic, indicated by the way he uses his pen. His hand is more horizontal than necessary to write on a clipboard, placing weight on the wrist to compensate for the tremors. However, the tremors are recent; a lifelong alcoholic would have adjusted to this much earlier in life. Alcoholism is attributed to a change in his environment…_

_Lung condition: he's been given a year to live. His general movements are all focused towards his own body: conversational hand gestures motion towards upper region of the chest; normal gestures are kept at arm level, so the hands would be inclined more towards the stomach rather than the chest area. It's unnatural; he's thinking about his own condition subconsciously. A year to live? Yes…the appointments on his clipboard don't surpass six months from now. Six months to work, six months to settle down; that's generally how people who know they are dying do it. Not that six months changes anything…_

_The lung condition is no surprise, as he is an avid smoker. The back pocket of his pants has the outline of a cigarette box; the fabric sinks along the edges of the box rather than remaining taut. He always puts the cigarettes in that pocket out of habit; the fabric has stretched due to said habit. Which reminds me: I want a smoke. I know there are some cigarettes somewhere around the flat…_

"You are a neurologist with a bad marriage who enjoys rowing, smoking, drinking, and silly nurses and only has a year to live due to…lung cancer."

Immediately, the medical conference was paused. Dr. Frobisher was stunned into silence, as was John. Sherlock simply crossed his arms and leaned back on his pillow; how easily ordinary people lost their wits…

"Well?" Sherlock finally broke out. "Am I right?"

"On all accounts," Dr. Frobisher replied, his voice shaking. He slipped his glasses off with a trembling hand and looked at him with a tired frown. "How…how did you know all that?"

"Easy enough," Sherlock began, completely unfazed by the onslaught of visible emotion from Frobisher. "There's the…"

"Sir," John cut Sherlock off with a dark glare before turning to his mentor. "Why didn't you tell me? How long have you had this condition?"

"Long enough to know that my time is coming up, my dear boy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a patient I must see." With that, Dr. Frobisher handed John the charts and made towards the door. However, he paused before he swung the door open. "Actually, John, your friend wouldn't happen to be a sociopath, now would he?"

"Erm, well—"

"High-functioning," Sherlock blurted without questioning.

"Ah," Dr. Frobisher gasped. "You see, there seems to be a correlation between sociopathic disorders and the width of the corpus callosum. Your friend here has a longer, narrower corpus callosum than the average specimen…would you mind if I conducted some tests on him?"

"Thank you, Dr. Frobisher," John announced nervously as he shoved the neurologist out into the hallway.

Once the door was shut, John turned to Sherlock, his head cocked with mild irritation. "You didn't have to show off," he muttered.

"I had to show you I was fine somehow," Sherlock groaned. "You said you were worried about my head; I just proved to you that my head is perfectly fine. Now, can we leave?"

"No."

"You can't keep me here, John," Sherlock warned.

"Actually, I can. As your attending physician, I want you here for one more night; just for observation," John added when he saw Sherlock's eyes roll. "Look, you can survive one more night."

"And what's stopping me from walking out of here of my own accord?" he threatened.

"In case you haven't noticed, you don't have clothes. I'm not bringing anything in until tomorrow morning, so have fun escaping in a hospital gown."

"Fine," Sherlock growled, flopping back on his pillow. John almost laughed at the sight; Sherlock was moping, a loose scowl forming on his lips. He was acting like a child. But for all John cared, he was awake, and that was good enough for him.

Good enough for him to disregard the tiny, singular dot that appeared on the frontal lobe of Sherlock's brain scans.


	4. Chapter 4: Visitors

**Chapter 4: Visitors **

_I'm bored._

Sherlock remained lying on the hospital bed, his figure perfectly still. Even with his eyes closed, he was not sleeping; he refused to sleep. He had been unconscious for two days, according to John, and the last thing his mind needed was more sleep. What he needed was intellectual stimulation, something to jump-start his thoughts again. Deducing Dr. Frobisher had been a good start, but it wasn't enough to quell his restless mind to suffer through the night. Ideally, he could have just snuck off to the basement of St. Bart's to run some experiments in the lab, but leaving the room in nothing but a hospital gown… he wasn't desperate enough to sink to that level.

So there he was, at two in the morning, with nothing else to do but think _I'm bored._

Sometime around midnight, Sherlock gave into the scientific temptation of what Dr. Frobisher had said earlier: "_there seems to be a correlation between sociopathic disorders and the width of the corpus callosum. Your friend here has a longer, narrower corpus callosum than the average specimen…" _He had pulled his charts from the foot of the bed and analyzed the charts for himself, satisfying his curiosity. His corpus callosum was indeed narrower than any other brain he had ever dissected (the assumption being that the previous owners were considered "normal" people; a safe enough generalization), and he made a mental note to look further into the topic. The information could prove useful in any cases involving supposed psychopaths.

But something else had caught his eye: a singular dark spot on his frontal lobe, just under the gash on his forehead. It was minor, not any bigger than a pinhead, and nothing he would worry about in the moment. If Dr. Frobisher hadn't said anything about it, it was irrelevant. Obviously John would have worried incessantly if there was any real danger; he would have worried even if the threat were non-existent. Regardless, he ran over the major functions of the frontal lobe: personality, emotional comprehension, idea manipulation, thought-processes, long-term memory…all of which still functioned perfectly.

He had revisited the explosion many times that night, playing the memory over and over in his head. It had become a video, each moment a crystalline picture of the panic, the people, the destruction that had ensued. The images, though, felt…strange, too perfectly maintained. It was an impossible sensation to describe: nothing was wrong, but something was missing. It certainly wasn't a memory issue, but a sensation that was impossible to describe. He wasn't sure what it was, but there was something. He just had to find it.

In the darkness, Sherlock allowed his senses to take over, intensifying the physical stimulation surrounding him. The steady beep of the machine by his bedside; the tick of the analog clock above the door; the rush of the breeze outside his window; the cars passing by the hospital; the muted thumps of a male nurse's tennis shoes walking down the tiled hall; the sliding of plastic as an automatic door opened; machines whirling; squeaking wheels of rolling hospital beds; crinkling sheets over his chest as his lungs expanded with each breath; the drip of an IV; the beating of his heart; the—

_Stop_. He had been listening to the same sounds for the past two hours; he had been aware of every human being that had passed by his door. There was no way he could have missed the sound of someone entering his room, much less walking down the hall. It was impossible…but there was no mistaking the feeling that suddenly reverberated through his body: there was someone in the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes. From the far-back corner of the room in which the bed and machinery had been placed, he could clearly see the entirety of his small room within a single glance. On the wall directly in front of him was a sink and small counter; to the wall on his left, two or three plastic chairs and the door to the hall. On the wall to his right was a window to the outside world, through which the light of the streetlamp outside streamed in, shading the room in an orange tone. It was open, allowing cool air to flow in through the rustling leaves of a nearby tree. The only other source of light was through the door itself; a narrow viewing window that opened out to the harsh artificial white of the hospital wing.

A figure stood by the window, its shape divided in two by the difference of light: one side orange, one side black. A female in a loose shirt and dark jeans had suddenly appeared in his room. The parts of her that were illuminated glowed, the lamp reflecting off her skin. She was waiting, her arms wrapped around her small waist and one hand held up to her mouth with in calm thought. A cool breeze rushed in from the window, making strands of her long hair float off her small face. Sherlock studied the features illuminated from the outside, but her dark eyes, cast down towards the floor in thought, was what caught his attention; they were distraught, troubled by something he couldn't read. Actually, he couldn't read anything about her at all. It was as if she were neutral; so insignificant that there was nothing to be deduced about her.

He shifted his body so he was sitting up. At the sound of his sheets ruffling, the girl's eyes shifting up towards him. She pulled her hand away from her lip and took a deep breath. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they darted up and down her outline, his mouth tense with focus; there had to be something about her, something that would tell him who this really girl was. Why couldn't he think? He felt the answer lingering in his back of his mind, brushing the edge of his consciousness. It was frustrating beyond anything else he had ever tried to piece together; not because he wasn't capable of knowing answer, but because he knew it already.

The girl walked towards him, each muffled step aggravating Sherlock further and further. She sat on his bedside, and Sherlock could feel the weight of her body shifting his position on the flimsy mattress. She smiled weakly, trying to diffuse some of the tension that was building between them, but his cold glare remained. With a small sigh, she reached up towards the bandages on his forehead, brushing them lightly with her fingertips. He flinched slightly at the unexpected twinge that followed, which caused her to pull away.

"You should have left when I told you to; this wouldn't have happened," she said quietly, her voice breaking between a whisper and a low mutter. "I'm just glad you're okay. It took me a while to find you, though. I was getting scared…"

When Sherlock said nothing in reply, the girl's eyes grew wide with horror. Her lips parted as if to say something, gaping for a moment as she tried to read Sherlock's blank expression.

"You don't remember me," she trembled. It wasn't a question; she said it like it was a fact.

"I know everything about you, Alice Claireborne," Sherlock uttered with cruel articulation. It was the truth; he knew he knew everything about her. Everything he had deduced about her when they met in the explosion, he just couldn't reach it. But at least he remembered her name. "How did you find me?"

"It wasn't that hard," she shrugged. "It was simply a matter of checking patient registrations in the surrounding emergency rooms."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he cocked his head in a momentary thought. "I never told you my name."

"You're the infamous Sherlock Holmes; after your suicide stint, your face was all over the news for weeks. You didn't think I wouldn't at least recognize you, did you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Just checking up," she smiled weakly.

"No," he snapped. "If you were just checking up, you wouldn't have bothered climbing up a tree to see me. In fact, you should be avoiding me; I can place you at the scene of the crime, and I run the risk of establishing you as a person of interest in the detonation of the explosion. I am the last person you should be contacting right now, which means you're desperate. You need me for something; something on my persons or in my memory. Judging by the fact that your first remark towards me was about my ability to remember things, I would assume the latter. Why did find me?"

She paused, studying him with a dark gaze in the dim room. "I need your help," she whispered.

"Not until you explain to me the full extent of your involvement in the explosion," he muttered.

"That's absurd. You already know all that."

He glared, waiting for her to admit it was a sarcastic remark or an inane statement.

"You already know all that," her voice choked slightly as she repeated it.

Sherlock looked into the darkened face, still trying to read her expression, when he stopped. Her eyes were panicked; he felt her heart rate rising as she clutched onto his wrist. In their silence, there was something too familiar about her expression. The machine's beeping sped—

_No,_ Sherlock finally paused, _is that her pulse or mine?_

Simultaneously, they turned to the heart monitor, watching as its metallic beeping sped momentarily and then slowed, returning to its normal pace. The girl sighed, releasing his wrist as she stood up. But Sherlock's eyes never left the heart monitor; there was something wrong. She had influenced his heart rate, but he was positive that the sensors on his chest wouldn't be able to pick up the pulse from her hand.

Alice was about to say something when something caught her ear. After a quick glance towards the hallway door, she stroked the bandage on his forehead lightly.

"I'll see you later," she murmured into his ear. With that, Sherlock listened as she walked back to the window. The familiarity, the sensation of falling, burned deep within him, but his thoughts were slowed, processing things through a strangely dulled lens. There was something faded about their experience together; something that didn't make any sense.

"Wait," Sherlock called out. But when he looked to the window, she was gone; probably having climbed down the tree outside the open window.

Sherlock flopped back onto his bed, resuming his original position. His thoughts raced through that whole encounter, but nothing made any sense. He recalled the Alice Claireborne of the explosion, as well as the Alice Claireborne of the hospital, but the images barely connected. It was as if they were two separate entities, warped by some sort of twisted fault. His mind returned to the hospital, each stimulant pulsing with its regular continuity, but the thoughts of Claireborne stabbed through. She was just a girl; why couldn't he deduce a thing about her—

Sherlock's eyes flashed shut, and he let his body go limp. There was someone outside his door, and he knew exactly who it was the moment he had entered the hall. The heavy clicks of tailored work shoes; the slow, singular pace of movement; the rustle of a tight suit: only one person could walk down the hall of St. Bart's emergency ward after visitor hours without being escorted, and Sherlock had no desire to speak to him.

There was a squeak as the door was silently pushed open. Sherlock could smell his presence; the scent of men's cologne faintly permeating the air. For good measure, Sherlock allowed his nose to twitch before rolling onto his side, away from view of the intruder. Feigning sleep was more appealing than conversing with his brother, despite the fact that only ten minutes ago he was desperate for stimulation. In no way would he allow the likes of Mycroft to see his puzzled mind; he would deal with the Alice girl on his own.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, watching his brother. While part of him had expected Sherlock to still be awake at two in the morning, he knew that his brother had been through quite an exhausting ordeal. According to the paramedics, Sherlock had been buried so far underneath all the rubble of the explosion that, if it weren't for Mycroft's directions, he would have died of asphyxiation before anyone else could find him.

Then again, he was part of the reason Sherlock had even been caught in the shockwaves of the explosion; a contributing factor to a series of circumstances that placed his younger brother in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time. The only reason Sherlock had left 221B Baker Street that day was because he found the hidden security cameras that had been installed in John's absence. A heroic attempt at caring, but a failure nonetheless. Suddenly, Mycroft found himself feeling a strange melancholy. It wasn't that he regretted putting his brother under surveillance; it was the fact that he could not protect Sherlock even under the highest of security levels. One day, he would be too late to save him; nothing to show for the effort but a compilation of security footage and a dead body on a hospital bed. But for now, Sherlock slept.

With a sigh, he found himself over Sherlock's bedside, a hand over his bony shoulder. It hovered, unsure whether or not to make contact. Sherlock's dark curls flounced over his head, making Mycroft chuckle softly. Perhaps it was better that his brother was asleep; there would be no petty arguments or battle of wits or snide comments, only peaceful existence. And, for the moment, that was enough. The relief that his brother was indeed alive, that he had found him in time, was enough.

"I'll come back later," Mycroft mumbled under his breath, pulling his hand back. Then he was gone; out the door and down the hallway with nothing but the click of his shoes against the tile to mark his movement.

Leaving Sherlock awake in his bed once more; alone and quite unsure what to make of his late-night visitors.


	5. Chapter 5: Memory

**Chapter 5: Memory**

"John, give me my clothes."

"Just give me a minute."

"Give me my clothes."

"I'm trying to figure out why your heart rate was elevated at two in the morning. What were you doing?"

"John, give me my—"

"Sherlock!" John snapped, swinging away from the heart monitor.

Sherlock was still sitting on the bed, his back perfectly straight as he eyed John with a look of irritated boredom. Because of the backless nature of the gown, John's presence had restricted him to the sitting position, and he was beginning to get restless. Hell, he had been restless all night after the strange visits, lying in bed waiting for his friend to come in the morning. Now that he was here, though, he provided little distraction from the boredom and the growing desire for a cigarette.

John studied Sherlock momentarily, trying to figure out what the man had done all night. The dark curls were a mess, hanging over the bandages that were still wrapped over his forehead. Outside of that, there was nothing; no signs of Sherlock having tried to sneak out at all. To be quite honest, the doctor was extremely surprised that he hadn't gone to the lab downstairs; the fact that Sherlock had restrained that desire was a positive. Maybe he had gotten some sleep after all…Sherlock's eyes narrowed with annoyance, almost admonishing John for not hurrying up. So Dr. Watson continued.

"I know you want to get out of here, but we're not in any rush. Besides, your EKG is showing an irregularity and I'm not sure…"

"At two am, Mycroft came for a brief visit," Sherlock flopped back onto the hospital bed. "I feigned sleep, but his very presence irritated me enough to increase my heart rate."

"And how exactly did Mycroft get in after visiting hours?" John mused, pressing buttons on the machine to print the EKG. "Even as a family member, St. Bart's is pretty strict about overnight visits. I was only allowed because I'm your doctor…"

"He's the British government; that's hardly a problem. Now, clothes."

"In the bag over there," John waved vaguely towards the waiting chairs. Sherlock tore the sensors off his chest and leapt towards the bag, snatching his shirt and trousers from it. Quickly, he slipped everything on, almost falling as he lifted a leg to slide into the trousers. John laughed at the scene; Sherlock was usually so graceful that to see him any other way had been inconceivable. Even the deadly glare he shot at him for laughing couldn't stop the doctor.

"Seriously," John said with a chuckle as he shut the monitors off, "what's the rush? It's not like the Queen of England's visiting you."

"No," Sherlock muttered, glancing up at the clock, "but Lestrade will be here in two minutes, and Mycroft will no doubt make an appearance. I will not let them see me in a hospital gown, lest either one try to take a picture for the rest of Scotland Yard…speak of the devil."

Before John could even ask what Sherlock meant, there was a heavy knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called in from the hall. John could see him through the small window on the door; the grey mass of hair loped on the pale face. It was still strange seeing him in a grey t-shirt; not that there was a need for the usual jacket during the summer, but it was a casual nature that had only ever been implied in their interactions. The detective inspector was bouncing anxiously; the last time he had seen Sherlock, he had been lying comatose with tubes running down his throat and along his arms. Once John heard Sherlock zip up his trousers, he waved him in.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade burst through the door, striding over to him and patting his stiffening shoulder. The detective inspector took one glance at his figure and felt a wave of relief; he looked fine. His body had been relatively unharmed, outside of a few gashes. Compared to what he had been digging up from the remains of the explosion in the Business Square, it was nothing short of a miracle.

"How's your head?"

"They won't let me take this ridiculous bandage off."

"Well, now," Lestrade tried to keep things cheerful. "It's not that bad; could be worse."

"Enough with the small talk," Sherlock cut in, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, "I assume you are here to take a statement?"

John frowned at Lestrade, his pale eyes clenching slightly. "I told you this could wait till later."

"Actually, it can't." The cheerful smile fell from Lestrade's lips, the lines on his face now deepening. "I'm sorry John, but people are afraid, really afraid, that this won't be a one-time occurrence. They want answers on this explosion now. None of the other witnesses are giving me anything solid; I need Sherlock."

"Forget about it."

"John…" Lestrade beseeched patiently.

"He needs rest," John argued.

"My brother never needs rest," a voice broke in.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, his suit impeccably neat. A polite smile sat on his pale lips as he nodded to John and Lestrade. They both responded with a loose murmur of greeting before he diverted his gaze to his brother. Even as they stood on opposite sides of the room, Sherlock's natural tension regarding his elder could be felt. Not that it really mattered that much to Mycroft; he had been able to keep his brother alive. He would rather have that tension any day than know his brother was dead; tension meant Sherlock still cared about what his brother thought of him.

"Glad to see you're awake, Sherlock."

"Mycroft; I see that diet of yours still isn't working."

"So you do remember some things," he stated calmly. "Good. Inspector Lestrade, I suggest you start your questioning soon; before his memory starts to fade." There was something antsy in Mycroft's tone, something that Sherlock caught almost immediately. Why was his memory suddenly so important to his brother...?

"That won't be a problem," Sherlock snapped.

"Wait," John called out again, trying one last time to advocate for Sherlock's health. "Isn't anyone listening to me? I think he needs more time. Can't this wait until we get back to the flat?"

"I am perfectly fine, John," Sherlock countered, making his way back towards the hospital bed and sitting along the edge. "I keep telling you, there is nothing wrong with me. Recollection will hardly damage my health. I must ask you not to doubt me."

John sighed, knowing he would lose this battle; he had lost the moment he had given Sherlock his clothes. He shrugged loosely, which Sherlock took as a gesture of concession.

"Now, shall we commence with this witness statement?"

The room settled with muffled anticipation as the parties prepared themselves. Lestrade sat in a chair opposite Sherlock, pulling out his notebook and pen. John remained by the heart monitor, observing the scene from over Sherlock's shoulder. Mycroft leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed with loose authority. Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing the images of the explosion to flood through his vision; there wasn't a detail he didn't remember. It was all there, nothing missing.

"Right then," Lestrade began. "What do you remember?"

* * *

"…I sent a text to Mycroft alerting him of my location, and that was it. I lost consciousness and woke up two days later in St. Bart's Emergency Ward."

Lestrade put down his notepad, running a hand through his greying hair. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, watching Sherlock with a tense expression. Two days; he and Lestrade had waited two days for Sherlock to wake up, praying that he would live. And now that he was conscious, it all seemed distorted; had Sherlock really been comatose? He certainly didn't act like he had been. It seemed surreal how quickly his friend had returned to him, almost too good to be true. Mycroft pulled a hand to his mouth, studying Sherlock intensely. His cool eyes darted around his brother before narrowing with concern.

Sherlock remained seated on the bed, completely aware of the apprehensiveness in the air. With his hands resting in his lap and his back perfectly straight, his face went blank; why were they so troubled by his account? They were being sentimental, and he had to resist the desire to roll his eyes; how utterly simple-minded these men could be. But rather than assure them of his well-being, he chose his usual taciturnity; he really was in no mood to deal with them.

"It sounds like you're lucky to be alive," Lestrade finally broke through the silence.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "I simply positioned myself out of the way of the collapsing building and blacked out."

"Well, that's still a hell of a lot more than most people did," the detective inspector sighed, flipping to the beginning of his notebook. "At least fifty people dead, eighty injured, and thirty missing; the building collapsed on itself. Most people didn't make it out of their cubicles; those who did barely had time to make it out of the stairwells. You really are lucky to be alive."

Sherlock deflected the sentiment. "What leads do you have on the case?"

"Erm, none," he stuttered, to which Sherlock and John gave a harsh glare. Lestrade continued, the desperation starting to show. "Look, we're still trying to find all the bodies. There's so much destruction that it'll take weeks to unearth the floor on which the bomb went off. The corporations in the north building are trying to figure out if anything was taken, but the damage to all the files and computers are too extensive for a quick inventory. Bomb squad is still trying to identify the composition of the explosion, but they're starting to claim it was something they've never seen before. We have no idea who would have done this; at this point, it could have been anybody. No one's claiming responsibility, so I doubt it was a terrorist—"

"It wasn't a terrorist plot," Mycroft interrupted, his curt voice cutting Lestrade off. He rubbed his face, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. "We would have known about it by now."

"By we, you mean you," Sherlock retorted.

"Sherlock," his brother continued somewhat hesitantly, "forgive me, but I find your account of this crime scene…unsatisfactory."

Sherlock's eyes turned aggressive, a scowl forming on his lips. Hostility; Mycroft knew what that meant. It meant there was truth in what was being suggested: something was wrong. Lestrade and John immediately turned to Mycroft's position with equally surprised expressions, still not catching on to what was implied.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John probed incredulously. "He's told us everything that happened."

Lestrade agreed. "You heard his account; it's all there. In fact, it's quite a vivid description; probably the best testimony given to me by any witness so far."

"It was indeed a vivid description," Mycroft uttered, "but it lacked…detail."

"He's just gotten out of a coma, for Christ's sa—"

"What was the composition of the bomb's explosives?" Mycroft asked bluntly, looking past the two companions and down on Sherlock. "You were right in the blast; you should have been able to tell the type of detonation."

Sherlock remained silent, the glare only intensifying.

"What did the dust particles tell you about the bomb's purpose?"

Silence.

"What did the concrete slabs tell you about the building's age and layout?"

Silence.

"What was the girl's occupation? Living quarters? Relations?"

Silence. Sherlock sat on his bed, eyes cold as they searched through the memory again and again. He saw everything with pristine clarity, yet he couldn't answer Mycroft's questions. He saw, yet he did not comprehend; he couldn't deduce. John watched him in horror as he came to the realization Mycroft had seen minutes earlier: there was something wrong.

"Sherlock," John murmured, getting out of his chair and moving towards the bed with a medical torch. Just as he was about to lay a hand on his shoulder, Sherlock growled something under his breath.

"Don't touch me." With that, he closed his eyes, mentally separating himself from the people in the room. He shut out the following conversations, allowing their voices to empty from his mind. Thoughts racing, he darted across his mind, trying to find the mental door to the vast space he kept the memories of his personal experiences. He searched, spanning through everything all at once.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes could not access part of his Mind Palace.

He began to cross-reference certain events with certain people and certain facts, testing everything he knew. The experiments, the psychology, the maps; everything before the explosion was intact, just the way it was before. He could run through every sort of medical condition passed genetically through generations. He could open up previous cases, flash through all the evidence and retrace the logic to the solutions. But the explosion…the answers to Mycroft's questions were in his mind, he could feel it. He saw the explosion happening before his very eyes, but there was a wall preventing him from immersing in that vision. As he continued the referencing, one item became more and more prominent.

The remainder of the room watched with deep concern.

"This can't be happening," John declared, turning back to Mycroft with confusion. "Just yesterday he deduced everything about Dr. Frobisher, a man he's _never_ met before, mind you, and got absolutely everything right."

"Then it must be confined to this specific event," Mycroft said with a troubled sigh. "I was afraid something like this would happen…"

"This doesn't make any sense." John reached over for Sherlock's files, tugging out a set of brain scans and moving towards the window for light. His movements were panicky; if there was something wrong with Sherlock's brain…"There's nothing showing in the hippocampus."

"Excuse me," Lestrade cut in loudly, his forehead wrinkled with confusion. "I'm sorry, but I'm not quite understanding what's wrong here."

"It appears that Sherlock is suffering from a minor form of amnesia," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Amnesia?" Lestrade's mouth gaped open. "Amnesia? Are you kidding me? You heard his testimony; he remembers everything perfectly."

"Yes, his memory works perfectly, but it seems that he has lost the ability to analyze from said memory."

"Meaning?"

"Deduction is no longer an option. I don't think Sherlock will be able to assist your investigation, Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft finished.

There was a distressed pause. There was nothing but the sound of the flimsy scans sliding along the files as John studied each one with extreme focus. Mycroft watched as his brother tried to recalibrate his brain, feeling a weight on his chest. Maybe he had been too late after all …

"Well," John sighed, putting the scans back into the folder, "there's a good chance that this is just a temporary problem. I don't see any long-term damage, but it's too early to tell. Otherwise, I think he's going to be alright."

Lestrade coughed. "If that's the case, I'll—"

"Claireborne."

The three men turned to the patient on the bed. Sherlock's eyes were open, staring directly in front of him, talking more to the air than to them. John and Lestrade eyed him curiously, completely unsure how they were supposed to react to that name. Mycroft's eyes widened momentarily before his expression became blank, lips creasing into a severe line.

"The girl who ran into towards the explosion: Alice Claireborne." With that, he jumped up and began pacing back and forth. "She is our lead; she knew this was going to happen. I need to talk to her again. Start searching through the security footage of any surrounding buildings; find out where she went after the building collapsed. Brown hair, brown eyes, birthmark on her upper-neck; teal skirt and white shirt. Canvas shoes. Won't be more than early twenties—"

"Hang on," Lestrade flipped through his notebook, scratching the back of his neck as he scanned through a page. John and Mycroft watched him, already knowing what he was going to say; they knew there was only one reason her description would be in his notebook. But for the first time, Sherlock seemed oblivious to the seemingly obvious.

"What?" Sherlock remarked, aggravated with waiting for the response. "Have you already talked to her? Where is she?"

"No, it's just that, erm," the detective inspector went pale. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but there's an unidentified body that matches that—"

"Oh," Sherlock inhaled lightly, his eyes going completely cold as he comprehended the next thing Lestrade would say. _Interesting; very interesting…_

"She's dead."


	6. Chapter 6: Cold Bodies

**Chapter 6: Cold Bodies**

"Sherlock!"

Molly Hooper leapt out of her chair as Sherlock strode through the doors of the morgue. Her heels clicked as she ran across the tiled floors and the white lab coat flew out behind her, revealing glimpses of a pale pink floral dress that matched her lipstick. Before he could stop her, she had him in a hug, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, releasing a deep sigh of relief.

Sherlock's body tensed under her embrace. His arms hovered awkwardly over his sides, unsure of what the appropriate course of action would be. He hadn't expected such a reaction from the mortician, much less the sudden physical contact, and he found himself unprepared. Looking down, he saw that the loose strands of Molly's sandy hair escaping from the ponytail holder was clinging to his dark shirt; no doubt some would remain even after she released him. If she released him.

"I'm so glad you're alright," she murmured, lifting her head to look into his stiff face. He was obviously uncomfortable with the hugging, but she didn't care. For the past three days, her job had been absolute hell; bodies had been coming in non-stop since the police arrived at the site of the explosion. The injuries on the corpses were brutal: bits of concrete and glass embedded within the skin, crushed bones, contorted limbs. It was overwhelming. But when she heard that Sherlock had been involved in the explosion…the worst part of the first day was the fear that Sherlock would be on one of those metal beds. Even when word had gotten down to her that he was in the Emergency Ward in a coma, the fear persisted relentlessly. It was only when his breathing figure filled her doorway that her heart relaxed. Of course Sherlock would never know the turmoil his condition caused her, but he was alive and that was enough for her.

"Yes, I am perfectly fine, as you can see." Sherlock studied Molly's small face. She looked tired, dark circles plaguing her wide eyes. She was also pale, much paler than usual. Her bright smile shrunk as she scanned the bandage on his forehead, hidden under the dark curls. His head flinched away as she reached up towards it, a worried expression overtaking her.

"Sherlock…"

"Erm, Molly," a voice called out behind Sherlock. "Do you two mind moving over a bit? You're blocking the doorway…"

John held out his hand, waving around the blocking bodies and causing Molly to gasp slightly as she hopped back. "Oh, sorry…"

Sherlock relaxed instantly after his release, pushing past her and going further into the morgue. Molly could feel herself blushing slightly as three other men entered the room.

"Hi," John nodded gratefully, touching her shoulder lightly before returning his attention to Sherlock.

"Hello, Molly," Lestrade greeted with a tired smile. He was always fond of the pathologist; she was a sweet girl, always bright and kind and patient. He could only imagine the amount of stress she had been under since the explosion. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," she replied. "How's the search going?"

"We're still pulling out bodies from the wreck, but I think we got most of them."

"That's a relief."

"Oh," John interrupted momentarily, motioning towards a stern man in a suit. "Molly, this is Mycroft, Sherlock's—"

"Brother," Mycroft completed with a vague smile, holding a hand out towards her. "I've heard quite a bit about you, Miss Hooper. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Oh, yes," she said, shaking his hand loosely. She had heard once that Sherlock had a brother, and Sherlock had brought up the name once while he was in hiding, but other than that he was just a shadow. He seemed to be a vague man, but she could tell there was something very powerful about him. It was just the way he carried himself: straight and upright, yet casual. Those were the people to be the most afraid of; those who were so confident in their own powers and abilities that it was second nature.

"I believe you have done quite a bit for Sherlock, especially during those three years," Mycroft continued. Of course they all knew which three years he was referring to, and she found her heart sinking slightly at the reference. She still felt guilty about lying to all those people: John was heartbroken, utterly heartbroken, and she couldn't console him in the least. Lestrade kept the appearance of strength in front of everyone else, but there were days he was visiting the morgue for cases that Molly could see he missed him. John and Lestrade had forgiven her for keeping Sherlock's condition a secret, but she couldn't help but still feel bad. No doubt Mycroft felt the grief of losing his brother; he was just another person who had to suffer under her silence.

Mycroft noticed how Molly's eyes fell slightly; unlike his brother, he could somewhat detect emotions. So he continued, "I cannot thank you enough for taking care of him."

"Oh, no, absolutely." She gave a meager smile; she understood what the man was trying to say. An awkward silence followed, the flow of conversation halting momentarily.

"Um," Molly stuttered slightly, still embarrassed at her display of affection in front of all the other men, "is there a particular body you're here to see?"

"Yeah," Lestrade began, flipping through his notebook. "Body 37: female with—"

"Brown hair, brown eyes, birthmark on upper neck; teal skirt, white shirt; canvas shoes," Sherlock interrupted impatiently, still wandering through the rows of bodies on silver trays.

"—er, that," Lestrade completed with a sigh. There was never any use trying when Sherlock was around. It was hard to believe he was suffering from amnesia when he went off like that.

"Body 37," she mumbled under her breath, her heels clicking underneath her as she returned to her desk and searched through a scattered mass of papers. That description was familiar to her, and as she pulled out the file she knew why.

"Last one in that first row," she called out, watching as Sherlock shifted directions. John, Lestrade, and Mycroft followed, surrounding the opposite side of the tray as Sherlock lifted the white tarp away from the head.

The body was that of a brutally beaten girl. Her dark hair was filled with white dust, bits of concrete and rubble tangled within the strands. The pale skin of her arms glowed in the artificial lights of the morgue, only serving to contrast the deep purpling bruises that covered her forearms. Along the deep collar of her shirt, more blotches of discoloration stained her bony clavicle. Up on her neck, the small circular birthmark was divided by a thin cut. There were cuts scattered all along her arms and upper chest, even on her colorless face. In death, the girl's face had a somber beauty: dark lashes and purplish bowed lips against the white skin, her eyes closed and her jaw relaxed in a calm expression. The gash exposed on her left temple added a severe perspective to her soft visage, the skin still lifted slightly away from the wound. As Sherlock removed the rest of the tarp, her legs revealed the same afflictions: bruises and cuts lining the limbs that showed from under the tattered teal skirt. Just like Cinderella, one of the canvas shoes had slipped off her foot, probably buried under the wreckage.

There was a moment of silence as the group took in the broken body in front of them. None of them had anything to say. John had seen cases like these before: soldiers who had been caught under collapsing homes and buildings during a raid. Most of the time the soldiers could escape with one or two crushed limbs; those wholly immersed by the wreckage were lucky if they were pulled out alive. But those were trained soldiers; this was a young girl…Lestrade could only give a restrained sigh; he had been pulling bodies out for the past two days. Well, not him personally, but he watched as the paramedics and bomb squad unearthed body after body. It was never-ending. And to watch as nervous families identified the bodies on-site…it was terrible, absolutely terrible. Mycroft glanced over the body with an austere face, his eyes cold and his mouth in a severe line.

Sherlock remained on the other side of the body, scanning it up and down. His face went blank, falling into deadpan, as the memories of her ran through his mind. It was a vivid picture, even the things he couldn't see in the body lying in front of him. Those dark eyes, filled with urgency and fear: he could still see them. He could still hear her voice, lingering through the ringing dust.

_What are you doing? You need to get out of here! Let me go!_

_It wasn't supposed to go like this; nobody was supposed to get hurt._

The group watched with curiosity as Sherlock reached out and grabbed her wrist, his hand easily able to wrap itself around it. She was cold; her whole body was cold. He studied the body again, confirming one last thing: this was most definitely a real body. So how had he seen—

"Well?" Lestrade said quietly, breaking the solemn silence. "Is that her? The Claireborne-girl?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied abruptly, dropping the wrist. "Alice Claireborne."

"Is that her name?" Molly asked from behind them. As they turned to face her, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her public speaking nerves. "It's just that, erm, she's one of the only bodies that hasn't been claimed yet. Most of the bodies that were brought down here were identified rather quickly; those carrying an id badge for work had their names written on them, and those without the badges were claimed the next day by family members. A lot of employers have been down here to identify anyone without identification or nearby family, which makes my job a lot easier. Not that I'm happy about that at all, just—"

"Moving on," Sherlock cut her off.

"But 37…there's was no identification on her body, not even a driver's license. Nobody's recognized her. I've been checking the Missing Persons notice from the Yard; nobody's looking for her either. I almost put Jane Doe on her form. Sherlock, did you know her?"

"Briefly." Sherlock began to pace back and forth, but stopped abruptly and shot a look towards Molly. "Cause of death?"

Her forehead clenched slightly as she scanned through her file. Sherlock almost never asked her for the cause of death; he preferred to do his own autopsies when it came to important cases. Most of the time he could simply look and know the cause. The fact that he was asking her…that's when it hit her; there was something wrong. The worried gazes from John, Lestrade, and Mycroft weren't directed at the body anymore, but to Sherlock; more specifically, Sherlock's forehead.

"I wasn't going to do a full examination because, well, we know how most of these people passed," she said slowly, switching her gaze between Sherlock and his concerned entourage. "But if she didn't die from blunt trauma to the head, I would say asphyxiation under the concrete. Do you want me to do an autopsy?"

"Will it tell us anything about the girl?" Lestrade asked.

"I thought you knew her," Molly countered, turning to Sherlock with mild concern in her eyes.

"Briefly," Sherlock repeated with mild annoyance.

"Briefly how?"

"Briefly as in we met when she was running into the north building that collapsed on top of her."

"Oh," Molly sighed, pulling a hand up to her mouth with minor distress. "Then, what's so special about her?"

They all waited for Sherlock to answer, but he didn't. He simply stared at the girl's body, his eyes darting up and down the thin corpse. He was looking for something, anything, that would spur his thought process, spark the things he knew he knew. Searching through his mind, he sought out the deductions he had made when he had first grasped her wrist and pulled her to a stop. But there was always a wall, a mental block that prevented him from fully remembering.

_Who are you?_

Sherlock was very careful not to let the irritation show on his face. The frustration was beginning to mount as his thoughts diverted. _Why can't I access anything? I know this; I know everything about her. I knew it the moment I saw her…why can't I see it? And if there's a dead body in front of me, how did Alice Claireborne visit me last night? I felt her; she was there, she was real. If it wasn't her, who was it? Who would have known about our encounter? Argh, this is—_

"Sherlock," John's voice quietly pulled him back to reality. Although John couldn't see past the blank expression, he knew something was bothering Sherlock. So, with a doctor's instincts, he had made his way around the gurney and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I keep telling you," John whispered, "you need rest. Come on; let's go. You can deal with this later."

Sherlock nodded silently, taking on a new taciturnity as he strode across the morgue, out the door, and down the hall. He needed to get out; he needed to think, to reorganize his thoughts, and there was really only one place to do that properly.

Molly was left with John, Lestrade, and Mycroft, each of them watching Sherlock's figure until he turned left at the end of the hall. There was a collective sigh, a momentary release of tension as they slipped into unconscious habits of stress. Molly drew her hand to her mouth again, absent-mindedly biting her lip. Lestrade ran a hand through his greying hair while John raised his right hand to rub his temple. Only Mycroft remained physically composed, leaving his gaze on the Claireborne's bruised body. In the silence, they listened to the second hand of the clock tick mechanically, leaving each of them with an unsettled feeling.

"John," Molly began quietly, looking at his creased face. He looked uneasy, his dark eyes somewhat faded. As he turned to face her, she could see the apprehension; he already knew what she was going to ask. "Sherlock…is he alright? Is he really alright?"

"I, erm, I think so," said John, a weak smile forming on his lips, trying to remain reassuring. "He just needs some time, that's all. He did just get out of a coma yesterday…"

"What do you want me to do with the body until then?" she asked, lifting the white tarp off the floor and placing it over the torso of the cadaver.

"Keep it," Lestrade spoke, giving Molly a shrug. "Keep it for as long as you can; Sherlock said it's important, so it's important. If anybody comes to identify it, call me; I'll be right over. John," he turned, "if I need you or Sherlock, I can find you at your flat, yeah?"

"Yeah," John coughed in reply. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make sure Sherlock is actually getting into a cab. Thanks for letting us see the body, Molly."

"No problem," she chirped, trying to lighten the tone of the room.

"Let me know if you need anything, John," Mycroft articulated carefully. "And Detective Inspector, if you would keep me updated on the investigation." Lestrade murmured something of agreement as John nodded gratefully before leaving the morgue, Lestrade following close behind.

Mycroft stayed, remaining by the corpse. His eyes never left the pale face and the dark mass of hair. Molly observed him from afar; she could see the genetic resemblance between him and Sherlock, but she noticed he was far more reserved than his brother. The artificial lights of the morgue cast harsh shadows down his face, hollowing his cheeks. His dark eyes were cast down; cold, but still carrying some sort of burden.

"Erm," Molly began uncomfortably, "I know we've only just met, but…did you know her?"

Mycroft glanced at her blankly, looking her over. So this was the girl who had saved Sherlock after his fall… he could see why his brother had gone to her. She was easy to trust; so willing to help, so willing to care. Almost his exact opposite.

Molly felt herself blush under his gaze. "I'm sorry if I'm prying," she stuttered, "it's just that, well, when family members come to identify their loved ones, there's this…reaction that happens. I don't know to explain it but, I just see it. It's that moment before they express grief or denial or sadness; just the shock of recognition. I don't know how else to explain it, just, I thought I saw…never mind; I'm prying."

With that, she went back to her desk, cleaning up the piles of papers that had been scattered over the surface. She always did that; telling people what she saw in them was not always the best of ideas. Feeling somewhat ridiculous for her forward nature, she tried her best to distract herself. It was working too, until something broke her focus.

"I didn't know her at all."

There was something in his voice as he said that that gave her chills. As Molly turned around to face Mycroft, though, he was already out the door, leaving her alone with Alice Claireborne and all the other victims of the explosion.


	7. Chapter 7: The Experiment

**Chapter 7: The Experiment**

The cab ride to 221B Baker St. had been a silent one. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed outside the window, obviously in no mood for a conversation. He hadn't said a word since he had seen the girl's body, nor had he shown any inclination when John offered to take him to the wreckage of the Business Square's North building. John watched him closely, looking for…well, he didn't know what exactly he was looking for. What he wanted to see was that spark in Sherlock's eyes; that brilliant moment when everything just clicked for the detective and the doctor would have to ask "and how exactly did you figure that out?" But that was a high hope; in reality, John observed him for the things he prayed would never show: tremors, headaches, twitches, blank stares, signs of brain dama—

_No, _John stopped his thoughts. _There is nothing wrong with Sherlock; there can't be. He just needs rest. _But as he glanced over at Sherlock once more, still focusing resolutely on the people they passed on the street, doubt slipped into his mind. What if he had missed something? What if there was something indeed wrong with Sherlock's brain? Amnesia after brain trauma wasn't uncommon, and for most people, it was only temporary. But Sherlock wasn't "most people;" he was too…incredible. And Sherlock was not suffering from normal amnesia; normal amnesia would mean forgetting everything about the event, not selectively missing all the details. The damage—_no, not damage; the problem_—was in his skills of deduction. But there was nothing to do but wait it out, leaving John to sigh and think about how to keep Mrs. Hudson from annoying Sherlock with redundant questions about his health.

When the taxi finally stopped in front of the flat, Sherlock practically leapt out of the cab and strode into 221, letting the door slam behind him. John paid the cabbie quickly, met Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs (giving her the calm suggestion of "leaving Sherlock alone for a while to rest"), and bounded his way to the door of flat B. Upon entering the flat, he was greeted by the familiar sight.

Sherlock had already found his way to the windowsill, his violin in his hands as he plucked away at its strings. From behind, he looked completely normal; the dark curls, the erect stance, the lean shadow cast across the living room in the early afternoon light. From across the room, most of the minor cuts on his arms weren't visible; the larger gashes already looked like purple scars. It was as if nothing had happened; John had just popped out to see Harry and now he was back. But too much had happened for either of them to ignore Sherlock's three day absence from their home.

"So, welcome back," John smiled awkwardly, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock remained taciturn, choosing silence as the conversation. Somewhat used to that reply, John made his way to the kitchen, starting up the kettle and reaching into the upper cabinet for—

John groaned as he remembered; they were out of tea. He meant to pick some up from the store the night before, but for the past three days, he had been…preoccupied, to say the least. Although he could wait, what would Sherlock's home-coming be without tea?

"Sherlock," he called out, swiping his phone and his wallet off the counter and going towards the door. "I'm going down to the store. There's some left-over Chinese in the fridge from last night if you want some, although you'll have to take the eyeballs out of the microwave to heat it up. Do you need anything?"

"Not at the moment," he replied vaguely, still looking out of the window.

"Are you sure? I can stop by the pharmacy and—"

"I said I don't need anything," Sherlock rushed on. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Alright then," John sighed reluctantly. "Just do me a favor and take it easy. Oh, and no exploding experiments while I'm gone; you've had enough explosions for the next couple weeks."

With that, he left the flat, hopping down the steps and practically jogging out the door. Not wanting to be away from Sherlock for too long, he made a mental note not to have a row with "the machine."

* * *

Sherlock smirked the moment he heard the door slam shut. Of course they were out of tea; it was the third Thursday of the month and he had the suspicion John would forget to buy a new box. As much as he did want John's tea (which he would never admit to his flat-mate, the general preference for his tea rather than any other tea), it was pity tea.

Sherlock could tell when he was being coddled. Perhaps coddled wasn't the right term for it, but that was what it felt like. It was the same as when Sherlock had returned from three years of playing dead; John wouldn't let him out of his sight. And John's constant monitoring and worrying and babysitting was annoying. He did want tea, though. The lack of tea, however, provided Sherlock with an opportunity; with John gone, he had the flat to himself, which was exactly what he needed. What better place to reorient the Mind Palace than 221B Baker Street?

Dropping the violin back into its case, he began to pace back and forth along the living room area. It was almost exactly as he had left it three days ago: mugs laid on just about every flat surface, papers strewn about the room, books littered on the floor. The newspaper he had been reading before he had decided to evade his brother's security cameras was still lying on his armchair. The gun was still lazing about above the fireplace, and the case files Lestrade and individual clients had brought to him (none of which scored above a 7; far too easy) dominated John's working table. Organized chaos; Sherlock found himself in the familiar organized chaos, lit by the summer light streaming through the windows.

Closing his eyes, he paused in the center of the room. With John gone, it was time to do an experiment; one he felt he already knew the answer to, but it was an answer he dreaded entirely. Better to do the experiment alone and suffer the consequences without witnesses. Keeping his senses alert to his environment, he lifted up his hands and opened the Mind Palace, returning to the customary point.

The boom of the detonation pulsed under his bones. He watched again as the Business Square descended into pandemonium, the dust filling all the air. The panic of the people, the building's falling concrete, the flying rubble...

_I can see it; I can see the explosion perfectly. But it's like I'm a—_

His thoughts were cut off by a sound; the faint rustle of clothing as a figure shifted behind him. The innate feeling caused by the presence of another person permeated through his body, like a buzz of electricity. Just as he expected.

"It took you long enough to find me," Sherlock said abruptly, prepared for the possibility of nobody answering him.

"That's not really my fault, now is it?" a light voice replied from behind.

Sherlock turned around, facing her. There had been nothing to indicate her arrival; he hadn't heard her walk up the stairs or even open the door. She had simply appeared, jolt into existence from thin air. But that was impossible: nothing could be created from nothing. Everything had to have an origin point, even a mysterious girl.

"Alice Claireborne."

"Sherlock Holmes," she greeted with a soft smile, crossing her arms in front of her and holding a hand to her lips in thought.

There was a pause as he took in the young woman standing before him. The summer light bounced off her flushed complexion; a musty green dress shaped her athletic build, cinching around a small waist and cutting off just above the knees to reveal long legs. Her long hair was tied back, shorter strands of the dark hair escaping from the ponytail and framing her soft face in muted shadows. Dark eyes watched him carefully, piercing through as they tried to read his initial thoughts. Compared to the corpse he had seen only an hour ago, she seemed much more…alive.

A scowl curled on Sherlock's lips. He scrutinized every aspect of her: her clothes, her hands, her skin, her face, her overall gesture. But there was still nothing; he couldn't deduce a thing about this woman. The facts lingered about in his mind, hovering behind that damn wall he couldn't penetrate.

"You're dead," he stated bluntly.

"It appears so," she shrugged, her tone careful not to confirm or deny anything. She wandered over towards the shelves by the fireplace, Sherlock's eyes never leaving her body. She was hiding something; that he was positive of as she glanced over the medical books. Her graceful movements were too controlled, too restrained, for this to be a simple conversation.

Reaching out towards one of the selections, Claireborne's hand hovered over the binding before pulling away abruptly. She could sense his discomfort, turning around with a troubled expression. Sherlock followed her eyes as they studied his body; the red cuts and gashes that lined his forearms and elongated neck, the scratches that grazed his cheekbones, the white bandage that hid underneath his dark curls. The more she saw, the more concerned her wide eyes became.

Sighing softly, she settled into his armchair, the sound of her dress rubbing against the fabric of the chair rough in the apprehensive nature of the room. Her body sank slightly into the yielding cushion, her legs crossing to keep her balance. She remained strangely reticent under Sherlock's edgy glares. She was infuriating; a void that proved nothing to him. He wanted to grab her, demand her to reveal everything she knew, but if he did that, he would never figure out if his hypothesis was correct. For the sake of his own experiment, he remained silent.

"You still can't deduce anything," she said quietly, breaking the tense silence.

"How would you know?" he countered.

"I just do." She laced her fingers together and rest her chin on her hands, just like Sherlock did in times of deep thought. "I can help you," she added.

"I don't need your help."

"I think you do."

"I'm perfectly alri—"

"No, Sherlock," she interrupted, her eyes soft with worry. She reminded him of John in that moment; no judgment, no condescension, only genuine concern. "You're not alright. Something's wrong; you and I both know it."

"The problem is not with me," he argued indifferently, not at all affected by her statement. "It's with you."

"With me?" she defied patiently.

"You cannot simultaneously be dead and alive," he said coldly, grabbing her wrist, pulling her out of the armchair and closer towards him. At such close proximity, a cool scent floated from her swinging hair. He felt the smooth skin of her inner wrist, the same as when he had caught her in the explosion. This time, though, she didn't struggle against his hold. She stared up at him, her dark eyes just as threatening as his. "I saw your corpse, so tell me: what are you?"

"I'm not an imposter," she hissed lightly, returning the same energy. "I am Alice—"

"I didn't ask _who_ you were; I asked _what_ you are."

"You know exactly what I am."

Sherlock released her wrist, but she didn't move away from him. Everything he saw inclined a real physical being, a person indeed standing in the middle of his living room. The sounds, the scents, the touch of her skin, it was all too real. There was no way she was really—

He could hear her steady breathing as she lifted her hand and brushed it against his forearm. The nerves in his arm tingled lightly at the stimulation. "Why do you keep avoiding the answer?" she asked, her voice rising with mild frustration. "You knew exactly what I was the moment you saw my body in the morgue. You've been conducting this experiment just to validate my being. Why don't you just accept me for what I am?"

"Because to accept your existence would be admitting to insanity," he snapped murderously.

"Just because you're hallucinating doesn't mean you're insane, Sherlock."

He fell silent, the air now thick with heavy tension.

"You're right," she said quietly, her aura starting to relax. "I'm not real. I don't exist beyond your mind. But you're not crazy; there is a logical explanation to this, you know that."

Sherlock glowered at her; of course he had already taken into consideration why he had been hallucinating Alice Claireborne for the past two days. That was why he had conducted the experiment to begin with; to figure out her associations. No doubt she knew he knew, but she continued on regardless.

"You saw the brain scan; when you were knocked over, part of your frontal lobe was damaged. It was a minor dot, but often that's enough. To compensate for the injury, your brain had to minimalize its activity long enough to recuperate. For a normal person, that could mean temporary loss of memory of the event leading up to the injury. Like Mycroft said: amnesia.

"But you aren't normal, Sherlock; your brain functions differently, especially when you take into consideration your use of the Mind Palace. When you went unconscious, your brain converted the memory of the explosion into the smallest file possible, maintaining only the stimuli: the auditory, visual, and touch sensations that were felt directly in the moment. In short, you can't experience anything beyond your first person view. That's why whenever you try to access it in the Mind Palace, you hit a wall. It's like being a bystander; you can see everything, but you can't act. You can't control what or how you see things either. Your usual habits of immersion have been disorientated."

"Then why am I seeing you?" Sherlock muttered, although he had already figured out the answer to that as well.

"You compacted the memory and fixated it onto the last thing you fully deduced, which happened to be me," she replied coolly, backing away slowly so she could look up at him with her dark eyes. "That was your experiment: confirming the correlation between a girl and your thoughts. Every time you've tried to manipulate the explosion in your mind, you get me."

When Sherlock didn't reply, Alice wet her lips and pushed on, trying a different angle.

"The real reason you don't want to accept me is because I am proof that something really is wrong with you."

"No," Sherlock contradicted. "You don't exist, Alice Claireborne. You're just a glitch in my Mind Palace, and I don't need you to lecture me—"

"I'm an _extension_ of your Mind Palace," she argued, trying to persuade him to believe her. "I am you, Sherlock Holmes. Every thought, every fact you know, I know. I know everything about you because you know everything about me, and I know there is really nothing wrong with you. You deduced Dr. Frobisher perfectly; is that not enough evidence of your well-being? The questions Mycroft asked you earlier… Sherlock, I exist only because you need me to. It's all in your head, and I can show it to you. Let me help you."

"How?"

"Close your eyes," she said, her eyes beseeching him to listen to her.

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock groaned.

"It's a metaphorical gesture; I suggest you go along with it."

"No," he pronounced stubbornly, glaring at her dangerously.

"Do you want to know what happened, or not?" she retorted, stepping closer to his towering figure.

He paused, momentarily wondering what would happened if he ignored his own hallucination. No doubt it would keep pestering him until he at least tried, and the last thing he needed was her as a distraction. "Fine," he grumbled as he closed his eyes, swallowed by darkness. He felt her cool hand slip into his, and the sound of her voice floated through his mind.

"_Now_ try to access the explosion through your Mind Palace."

With his free hand, he waved through the intellectual archives he had built throughout the years. Facts, biographies, reference points, puzzles, old Scotland Yard cases; he brushed through everything he had ever experienced and everything he had ever known. Suddenly, his hand jerked up, pausing at what he had sought for: the explosion in the Business Square. He hovered slightly over the memory, for the first time feeling doubt underneath all the skepticism. If this didn't work…

"Open your eyes," she whispered.


	8. Chapter 8: Immersion

**Chapter 8: Immersion**

Sherlock's senses were enveloped by a familiar warmth as he felt the world around him blur away. The air hung perfectly still, suspended from movement as his consciousness blocked out the existence of 221B Baker St. A deep breath, and he clenched his fists, allowing the tension to build with a tingle before releasing.

"Open your eyes."

He found himself surrounded by the Business Square, the light of the summer day bouncing off the graying concrete.

It was his memory, his experience, his encounter in the pristine state he had viewed its shadow multiple times by that point. But this was different from simple recollection; the wall that had blocked his deductions for the past two days fell. This was Immersion. He was no longer just viewing his own memory; he was manipulating it. Through his Mind Palace, he could observe everything through his own methodical, systematic lens; a three-dimensional diagram of his own memory. This was what he had been searching for; this was what he needed.

It was the moment before the explosion, a murmured silence buffing the sounds of the summer day. Business men and women were still lounging about on the granite benches in peaceful bliss, frozen in time. They became statues, hanging about in eager positions, waiting to resume. In Immersion, he controlled all time and space, directing his own recollections to his own analyzing needs; a skill that had taken many years to perfect, but had served him well in long-term investigations.

Standing in the center of the Business Square, he swiveled around himself, knowing where exactly He would be in the memory. Two feet towards the south exit, he saw himself, his elongated figure casting a dark shadow as he was paused striding away in deep thought. Sherlock studied his former shadow; the severe countenance on his face was withdrawn, still calculating the best way to break into Mycroft's offices. Strange; it was always strange seeing his own form from a differing perspective, a form derived from what he saw in the mirror every once in a while but…different. From behind the lean figure, movement caught his attention.

Alice Claireborne walked from the south exit across the Business Square, ponytail swaying while her musty green dress faded with the concrete. She paid no attention as she passed Sherlock's statue, keeping her focus on the corporate buildings instead. As a hallucination, her presence was bizarre. She did not belong in that memory, and his mind knew it, but she wasn't obtrusive in the least. A conflicting existence that was somehow neutral.

"The North building is fifty-three stories high," she said coolly, stopping by his side, eyes scaling the dark tinted glass. "The lower sixth of the building is derived from concrete walls and columns, suggesting a high-ceiling lobby giving way to the first row of windows. The weakest point would in the lower third, about the twelfth or thirteenth floor; damage the outer supports on either one of those floors for the greatest destruction."

"But that's not what they did," Sherlock muttered, glaring at the North building.

Time resumed, and there was the first boom of detonation, a low bass reverberating through their bodies. The concrete cracked, and the first floors of glass shattered. A rush of dusty air flew from the North building, knocking down the figures around them with a bludgeoning force.

"Detonation was outwards 360-degrees from its origin point," she called over the deafening sounds. "Remotely-operated; unless it was a suicide bomber, the explosive would need an exterior detonator to be set. The composition would be hard to determine without forensics data, but the radius of the explosive itself doesn't extend too far from the origin; only the secondary blast exceeds that. Whatever this was, its composition wasn't based off a flammable compound; firepower would have burnt you all within seconds with a blast radius like this."

Alice and Sherlock remained still as his shadow was thrust forward, a pale smoke emanating from the explosion behind him and the rubble showering down. They watched as he hoisted himself up, dust already caking his shoulders and intermingling through his dark curls. The air around them rang with a high-pitch whine.

"The dust particles you breathed in were mostly concrete," she analyzed with scientific precision, "suggesting the explosives detonated in—"

"The lobby," he completed, observing the forming cloud of smoke. "This wasn't about mass destruction."

Alice looked up at him with an intriguing smile. "Now you're getting it."

Something rushed past them, the air whirling as Alice Claireborne's old figure ran through the dusty fog. Sherlock's shadow remained still for a moment before dashing off behind her. They watched as their former selves jerked to a stop, panting through the heavy smoke before they could begin their altercation. The memory paused, and Sherlock studied the two Alices before him; perfectly identical in physical detail, but so different, so detached. The Alice Claireborne in his memory seemed paled in comparison to the girl standing by his side. The Alice Claireborne in his memory was dead, a corpse in St. Bard's morgue.

"Who runs directly into an explosion?" Alice wondered aloud.

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock muttered.

She glanced at him with another knowing smile. "I know." She circled around her frozen statue, scanning up and down her own figure with a concentrated gaze. "You knew everything about me from just one chance encounter."

"Tell me what I already know," he demanded.

"Nineteen year old girl; judging by her—"

"Your," Sherlock corrected.

"No, 'her'," she argued impatiently, swinging hair around. "I'm not Alice Claireborne; I'm how your brain envisions she would have been. Probably very close, but not the same at all." Her sharp features eyed him, making her point.

"Anyways," she continued, "judging by her middle fingers, she's ambidextrous, but prefers her right hand over her left. Simplicity of outfit suggests student; shirt and skirt have both recently been purchased, yet worn a great number of times. Splurging on clothing rather than tuition, but with a frugal and practical eye; how unusual for a young girl. Smudges of graphite and faded ink lining her forearm, but they're organized in a strange way…she must have fallen asleep with her arm on a map printed on soft paper. Permanent crease in hair; prefers her hair tied back. Right dangling earring angled towards the neck: she was on her phone recently, and for a long period of time judging by the smeared makeup on her right cheek.

"She lives alone. The state of her hair... the edges are clipped at an angle only possible if the strands were held in front of her face; she cut her own hair. A girl of nineteen, if she didn't go to a salon, would have had her mother cut her hair. However, she is in some sort of relationship; recent impressions on the skin on her right middle finger are of a ring, but she took it off. It was on long enough to leave those marks though; a last minute thought. Cheating in said relationship? No, the ring itself has been sacred to her; if she were cheating, she wouldn't have waited until the last minute to take it off. So why did she take it off?"

"To remain neutral," Sherlock replied as surveyed Alice's motionless body. "This is all choreographed; the outfit, the jewelry, they were chosen specifically to evoke a stigma."

"What do you mean?" she asked, forehead clenching in deep thought.

"She's too neutral. You said she was recently on the phone; where's the phone? She wears a ring; where's the ring? She's a student; with uni discount rates, no student goes anywhere in London without their ID, so where is her student identification?"

Alice's eyes widened as she began to understand. "There's nothing personal about her."

"Anything that could be used to identify her has been purposely excluded," he stated. "The only real factor on her was that birthmark on her neck; outside of that, everything on her has been planned. She wanted people to look at her and attach her to a school girl stereotype. Why? Because people trust school girls; they aren't suspicious, they don't pose any threats. Her safety was remaining inconspicuous, which was why nobody asked the obvious question."

"Which was?"

"What was a nineteen year old school girl doing around the corporations of the Business Square in the middle of summer?" Sherlock cracked his knuckles. "She knew this explosion would happen."

"Of course," Alice replied. "We already knew that."

The scene continued; Alice beseeching Sherlock to leave while he held steadfast to her wrist. They watched as their conversation progressed, the air between them growing tense. Another explosion went off behind them, the blast of which Alice and Sherlock felt behind them. It was a chance encounter; it wasn't supposed to escalate into the damage it had. One meeting; one vague conversation: _It wasn't supposed to go like this. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. _

_Just tell me who you are! Who are you?!_

_Alice Claireborne. _

Sherlock's shadow released her wrist. The young girl paused, standing tall, studying the man who had abruptly stopped her and demanded to know everything. Alice and Sherlock observed the silence between them with a close pause.

"She's not the best actress," Sherlock muttered.

"In what way?"

"She tries to come off as a university student; the clothes, the panicked look in her eyes, it's perfect. She seems normal, but what she really is is brilliant. She's observant; mimicry of other girls her age. She's professional; look at her posture. She's incredibly athletic; the way she was running isn't typical of a teenage jogger. That's how I know you," he turned to Alice with dark eyes, "are not normal."

Alice was about to say something in response, when the air shifted. With a nod, the ghost of Alice began to run away into the smoke.

"There!" Alice gasped. "Stop!"

The girl was paused mid-run, her long hair flying out behind her.

"Her legs," Alice bent down onto one knee, pointing towards one long white scratch. "These scratches on right shin, you saw it on the corpse; there were cuts all over her body from the falling concrete, but these were there before she was caught under the collapsing building." Sherlock watched as she ran her fingertips along the vertical white marks. "It's faint; if her body wasn't settling into rigor mortus, I would say they would have been gone by the end of the day. The deepest point is the middle of the scratches. The top is the entry point, where the object entered her skin at an angle. Still, with the raised flecks of skin around it, I would say it was made recently; probably minutes from the explosive's detonation."

"Bike pedal," Sherlock stated, eyes set on the scratch. As Alice lifted herself up, he explained. "It's a common mark on amateur and rushed bicyclists; if their leg is too close to the pedal while they're resting, their shins are scraped by the pedal as they begin to bike or dismount. It's an incredibly careless mistake for her to have made."

Alice sighed. "Because—"

"Because now we know how she arrived at the Business Square and where her personal belongings are stashed," he concluded coldly. "She had both her phone and the ring moments before she ran into explosion, unexpectedly as I take by the rushed nature of her movement that led her to that mark. There will be a bicycle at the south exit of the Business Square."

Before Alice could even comment on his deduction, the memory burst back into motion. Alice's figure became a shadow in the smoke, and the chucks of concrete began to tumble all around them. Sherlock's figure gracefully darted through the falling rubble. A large man in a black suit rushed past Alice and Sherlock, knocking people over as he went. Suddenly, Sherlock was on the ground, the throbbing sensation beating through his skull.

"Sherlock!" Alice called out, kneeling as Sherlock groaned, pulling a hand up to his bandaged forehead. Through his dark curls, he could see her worried eyes. "I was afraid this might happen. Immersion wasn't the best option."

"I'm fine," he muttered harshly. "I'm just fine."

"No," she soothed, brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Just wait a minute. Breathe."

"Get away from me," he snapped, pushing her away. He turned his attention to his memory, his original self, helpless under the rubble. So pathetically helpless.

"Sherlock…" a voice tugged at him from afar as the two watched the concrete bury over Sherlock's body. His vision began to fuzz over, reaching its limit as he was falling unconscious under the wreckage of the explosion. "Sherlock…"

Alice looked down at him, breathing heavily as she began to fade away. She murmured something inaudible, a pale smile spreading over her lips and her dark eyes gleaming with excitement. She reached out towards his

* * *

"Sherlock."

Sherlock snapped into reality. Back standing in the middle of the living room of 221B Baker St, he blinked once or twice, reorienting himself to the shift in his environment. Immersion usually left him somewhat blurred, but this was worse than usual. His head was still throbbing painfully; blanking his mind, the throbbing subsided into a mild pounding. There was a moment of singular peace; alone, his mind clear for the first time in four days. It was only when John gave a light cough that he realized there was a pressure on his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

"Are you alright?" John asked, looking into Sherlock's dark pupils. His face was lined with concern, his pale eyes narrowed as they tried to see what was going on in his mind. It wasn't unusual for him to come home to a reserved Sherlock, so withdrawn that nothing he said could get through. It was the blank look in his eyes once he had scared him; that moment of dead nothingness. Even now, Sherlock seemed slightly delayed in thoughts. Whatever was going on under those bandages, in that brilliant mind of his, it wasn't good.

"How long have you been standing there?" he tried again. "I've been calling your name for the past five minutes."

"Hardly noticed."

"Yeah, I know."

"Call a cab," Sherlock ordered his friend, completely disregarding the comment on his health. Snatching his phone from his pocket, he began to type vigorously.

"And just where do you think you're going?" John asked nervously.

"The North building in the Business Square," he muttered. "I'm telling Lestrade we'll be over there in ten minutes; he'll meet us."

"Sherlock, I don't think—"

"The bomb was a fake," Sherlock said abruptly.

John's face fell, his mouth gaping slightly. "What?"

"The bomb was a fake, and I can prove it to you."

* * *

"Sir, we've completed our search."

Mycroft looked up from stack of papers he had been reading on a black sofa. He had been so focused that his current preoccupation had slipped away from him. Then again, he rarely attended flat searches personally. Most of the time he could send his own agents; they would be gone for two hours and return with enough evidence for any incriminations. But this was different; there was a matter here too important to trust with anyone else but himself.

A young man in a dark suit stood before him; a tall, lanky fellow, with a mop of blonde hair. Carsons was obviously not the most versatile of fighters (he could hold up on his own, but protecting others was really not within his best interests), but he was one of the best research agents he had in his personal assembly. And what Mycroft needed now was information.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, voice devoid of any anxiety whatsoever.

"Nothing pertaining to the explosion just yet. Marx and I can begin analyzing these papers once we return to the office."

"No," Mycroft interrupted, the young man giving him a confused glance. "This is a Grade 4 investigation; Marx doesn't have clearance to that level."

"Neither do I, sir."

"I want you analyzing those documents alone." Carsons nodded, accepting his promotion before Mycroft continued. "Was there anything else?"

"There was a safe in a trap compartment under the bed."

"Can you open it?"

"I'm sure I can, but it'll take some time," Carsons said. "It's a five-lock system, and no doubt it's been rigged so the usual methods won't work. I'll take it back to the office with me."

"Thank you," he replied coolly, waving the young man away. He looked around the small apartment. Through the windows along the It was a rather plain place, devoid of any underlying personality whatsoever. White walls, wooden floors, black sofas and chairs, glass tables; there were pictures along the walls, but nothing beyond scenic views of foreign countries. Mugs and a few dirty dishes sat in the sink, waiting to be scrubbed and put away, but other than that the flat was incredibly tidy. Papers had been strewn all over the living room table; everything they had found so far. Analyzing them wouldn't take very long; it was what was in the safe that mattered the most.

"I need you to do something," he calmly ordered, handing Carson a slip of paper. "Find everything you can on this person."

Carson took the slip, glancing at the name before a curious expression overcame his face: _Alice Claireborne, age 19._

"Sir, if you don't mind my asking, who was she?"

Mycroft said nothing, simply rising from the sofa and making his way to the door. Carsons knew his employer well enough to know that that meant the conversation was over and there was no point in pressing the matter further. Instead, he gathered the papers into a pile and wandered over to the bedroom safe.

Mycroft paused in the doorframe, though, taking one last look at the small flat. Still impossible to read, he gave a sigh; there was a lot of work before him because of this explosion, and not a lot of time to do it. His phone gave a singular buzz; no doubt Lestrade updating him on the remnants of the explosion.

_Sherlock is coming to the Business Square now. I think he's remembered something. Will update later. –Lestrade _

"Oh dear," he sighed, slipping his phone back into his pocket just as Anthea appeared behind him. Time was slipping from him faster than he expected.

"Your car is ready," Anthea announced quietly, the black vehicle pulling up just outside the door. Silently, he opened the door and sat down, running his hands along his face loosely. He let his face fall slightly, now positively sure nobody could see him (Anthea hardly cared at this point).

"Who was she indeed," he murmured out the window as the black car began to move down the road.


	9. Chapter 9: Diversions

**Chapter 9: Diversions**

Stepping out of the cab after another silent ride, Sherlock and John found themselves amid a sea of rubble and broken glass where the North building had once been; the aftermath of a chaotic explosion. The wreckage filled the street corner and the middle of the Business Square, forming a formidable mountain at the feet of the three remaining buildings. Two cranes from a nearby construction site had been moved to help clear the area, slowly pulling out large chunks of concrete and steel bars, but it was obvious that very little had been done. Corporate insurance agents were hanging around the area like vultures, trying to discern the damages and any missing valuables. The police men who weren't patrolling the street helped the bomb squad and paramedics climbing up and down the pile, digging through scraps for any salvageable items. What they were finding were more bodies, either crushed to death or asphyxiated under the rubble.

Sherlock strode ahead, crossing the street and quickly ducking under bright yellow police tape into the demolition site, leaving John to take in the scene. All that damage…Sherlock could very easily have been one of those bodies. He wasn't sure how Mycroft had been able to locate him so quickly, but it was a miracle. Still, that head injury worried him; even though Sherlock had been acting more normal since he had snapped out of that trance in the living room, it was only because of the excitement of a case. What would happen when he lost that? Left to his own devices, anything could happen. But John shook that off; this case had Sherlock acting more like himself, and the only option was to wait and see how things played out.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called out, waving towards the lean figure from the middle of the wreckage pile. As Sherlock carefully stepped his way across the square, he found himself observing the detective inspector to get a sense of the progress in the investigation. The man's skin was already darkening along the lines of his t-shirt after three days under the sun, shades of sweat pooling under the detective badge he wore around his neck. Running a hand loosely through his hair, Lestrade sighed and settled into a fatigued grimace; the case was not going well then. Obviously, Sherlock's input was needed. Just before he reached Lestrade, though, something caught the corner of his eye; a blur of olive green.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock muttered under his breath, eyeing her coldly.

"Just here in case you forget anything," Alice smiled coyly, knowing her very presence annoyed him.

"I won't."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Is there not a way to shut you off?" Sherlock snapped at her, halting with irritation.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade glanced at him curiously; it seemed like Sherlock was talking to somebody, but there was nobody around relatively interesting enough for him to be conversing with. Maybe he was talking to himself? Before John, Sherlock most definitely talked to himself about the details of crime scenes and investigations. Still, there was something "off." Then again, when was there not something "off" about the fellow?

"You alright? You seem a little, erm, tense."

"I'm fine," he growled, watching as Alice coolly walked around the two and stopped behind Lestrade. Setting her dark eyes on him, she placed a finger over her lips, promising her silence; not that anybody else could hear her. This was going to be an aggravating experience, having to deal with Claireborne without anybody else being able to see her. And unlike his other distractions and mental quirks, he couldn't shut this one off.

"So, what's all this about?" John asked as he came up behind Sherlock with a huff, stepping over to the side so he could face the other two equally.

"You tell me," Lestrade replied, giving John a tired look.

John shook his head, unsure of how to answer. "I don't know; Sherlock said the bomb was a—"

"What evidence have you already gathered?" Sherlock interrupted, impatient to begin.

"Nothing since I saw you earlier today," Lestrade sighed, kicking at concrete chunk at his feet. "We're still pulling out bodies; Bomb Squad still has no idea what caused this. Any evidence left will be buried under all this, but I have no idea when we'll reach it. I was kind of hoping you remembered something."

"Oh, I have," Sherlock smirked, his eyes suddenly bright. The excitement returned, and John found his heart lifting slightly; this was the real Sherlock, the man who would give up anything for a case. Maybe Sherlock really was perfectly fine.

"Great," Lestrade gestured with a reluctant agreement; at this point, he was desperate. "Let's hear it."

Sherlock glanced once at Alice; she was calmly observant, her pale face watching him with intrigue as he began. "To start, why is there not more damage?"

"What?" John asked incredulously, his brows furrowing tightly. "Of all the things, _that's _your major concern?"

"With the size of the North building, the weakest point on the structure would be the lower third levels; destroying the structures there would create the most destruction through the domino effect: North collapses on East, East collapses on South, South collapses on West. But that's not the case."

"I'd say a pretty good amount of damage was done," Lestrade countered, but Sherlock ignored him.

"There were two bombs."

There was a pause as John and Lestrade took in what he said. The suggestion was beyond their scopes in the moment, just too horrific to believe. Their faces fell immediately as they tried to grasp the gravity of what had just been suggested. As he watched the changing expressions on their faces, Sherlock felt the desire to roll his eyes at their reactions, but Alice glanced at him with a cool disposition, warning him to control his impulse.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

"The explosion occurred in two parts," Sherlock continued, "the lower and the upper region of the building. The first bomb was detonated in the lobby area, closest to the general public and the greatest impact to bystanders. That's why most of your witnesses only remember the initial blast; simple-minded people so traumatized by the shock that they numbed out any other stimulation. How can people be so ignorant of their surroundings? They simply need observe, but—"

"Sherlock," John scolded, warning him he was heading towards a rant.

"The bomb in the lobby went off first. But damaging the lower structures leaves the building too vulnerable; it could tilt in any direction, hitting the ground as a horizontal block. The second explosion was meant to control the wreckage; it was from higher above, more along the middle of the building. From that point, the structure would collapse vertically, compounding itself rather than affecting any of the surround buildings for maximum damage. In fact, there is hardly any damage on the East or the West building; impossible for an amateur bomb. This was absolutely brilliant," Sherlock gasped. "Don't you see it?"

Alice smirked from behind John and Lestrade's puzzled expressions. "See what?" John asked in a questionable tone.

"The explosion was a diversion."

Lestrade's jaw dropped, his hollow eyes widening as he took in the implications of the word. "You're telling me that a fifty story building was bombed, killing at least eighty people, to serve as a bloody diversion?"

"You have got to be joking," John murmured, looking around the demolished square one more time.

"No," he said bluntly. "The bomb in the lobby went off to get people out of the Business Square as soon as possible; the bomb on the middle floor went off to ensure the surrounding buildings were left unharmed. It doesn't matter what's in this rubble; what they wanted was in one of these buildings. The focus of your investigation is entirely in the wrong place."

"Where should it be then?"

"The East, West, and South Buildings. Have the corporations take account of their Intel; one of them will be missing something."

"And what would that be?"

There was a pause as John and Lestrade waited for Sherlock's revelations.

"No idea," he frowned slightly as Alice shrugged. It certainly wasn't something either of them could deduce by simply standing there. Obviously whatever it was would be highly-sensitized information with financial or political implications, but that was something he could leave to Lestrade and his detectives; he was more interested in details other than missing paperwork. With that, he turned to make his way down the pile.

"Have Bomb Squad send samples to the lab; I'll analyze them myself, as those imbeciles have proven themselves to be useless before."

"That's it?" Lestrade called after him, somewhat dazed by the daunting task that had suddenly put on his top priority. "That's all you remember?"

"That's more than enough for you to work with," Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave, leaving John and Lestrade up on the mountain of rubble with a mild feeling of discontent. After everything they had heard about the bomb's purpose, they had expected more from the brilliant detective; then again, Sherlock loved to keep them in the dark.

"He's serious" Lestrade groaned in frustration, kicking up more concrete. "That's all he's going to tell me; I hate it when he does that. Why does he always do that? I mean really, that can't be all he knows."

"It's probably not, but it's better than nothing," John said coolly, the worried expression in his eyes reminding Lestrade about the condition Sherlock was in only a few hours ago: the Sherlock with the blank eyes. Suddenly, the detective inspector felt guilty about his reaction altogether.

"Look, John," he ran a hand through his grey hair. "I'm sorry. It's just that it's been three days and we have nothing to show for it; I was really hoping Sherlock could—"

"I know," the doctor broke in, giving Lestrade a reassuring pat on his shoulder. The detective was beyond tired, and it was starting to show even through his lax nature. But there wasn't much time left between them; Sherlock was starting to reach the outer edge of the rubble. "I'll talk to him; see what else is on his mind. Just, take it easy Lestrade."

"You'll let me know if there's anything else, yeah?"

"Sure."

Lestrade watched as John chased after Sherlock, hoping for the best. It was a pause, a moment of rest for him, before he set off on the tedious task of directing corporations on Intel accounts. To be honest, it should have been the last thing on his list; Scotland Yard wanted answers on the cause of the explosion, suspects, and the motives by next week, and things already weren't looking good. But, as usual, if Sherlock said it was important, it was important. And, as usual, he had to trust the bloody bastard.

"Cornerstone!" he hollered to two of the assisting officers. "Get me a list of all the corporations in the Business Square, excluding those demolished in the North building. Russo, come with me to the West building."

* * *

"Very good," Alice teased him lightly, catching up with his deep stride. Her hair tossed lightly behind her, her body bouncing with graceful agility. "So you do remember."

"How could I remember something I never forgot?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"It's simple when you put it like that, but let's not forget I had to remind you of your own deductions."

"You are nothing but a reflection to my own mind," he countered, conscious not to look at her and to maintain his focus on the path in front of him. He could hear John's footsteps farther behind him, no doubt monitoring his actions from afar. The last thing he wanted was to have John know he was hallucinating. If the doctor knew about the visionary Alice, there would be no end to the medical tests and bed rest and… he held back the desire to groan at the thought of another few months under Dr. Watson's babysitting. "Besides, most of those deductions were child's play."

"Ah, but the look on their faces when you said 'diversion;' that was priceless," Alice continued. "Do you always intend to sensationalize your revelations on others?"

"I did no such thing."

"Outright announcing the bomb was a 'diversion' was a little dramatic, you must admit."

"I was simply stating the conclusion the facts ultimately led to."

"I guess it's just a force of habit, then." He could feel her grin beside him, her graceful figure walking tall; she was taunting him, almost like—

"Sherlock," John called out from behind him; he was walking faster than usual, which could only mean one thing: there was something he was looking for. So he did remember something else; something he didn't want Lestrade to know about it. While John always wondered why Sherlock withheld all the important details from the DI, the doctor could really only think one thing: good thing he wasn't Lestrade.

"Have I proven to you that my memory is beyond satisfactory yet, or shall I have to recite the medical definition of 'amnesia'?" Sherlock paused, allowing Dr. Watson to catch up to him before proceeding at the same pace.

"Erm, I'm good, thanks" he replied, somewhat rushed on his words. This was good; Sherlock was good enough to be making fun of him, but that would only last as long as the detective maintained interest. Running through his memory, he tried to recollect the important things Sherlock had said during his witness testimony; something that would spark his memory a bit further. One thing instantly burst into mind: "What about the girl?"

"Alice Claireborne."

"Yeah, her," he pushed, "what do you remember about her?"

"Enough."

"Enough for what?"

"Enough to know the obvious," said Sherlock. "She had prior knowledge of this explosion; find her, find the threads to the explosion's origins."

"She's dead, though. How exactly are we supposed to find her if she's in St. Bart's morgue?"

"I have my suspicions," he replied vaguely, watching as Alice's figure ran slightly ahead of them and towards the south exit of the Business Square.

"Right, suspicions…" John murmured under his breath; classic Sherlock.

"Look," Sherlock stopped abruptly, motioning John pause as well. Turning around himself once, the detective took three paces back and five paces to his right, practically jumping over large slabs of concrete on his way. John crossed his arms; whatever the man was doing, it was completely unbeknownst to him.

"This was where I stood when Alice Claireborne ran past me," his hand motioned towards an invisible figure rushing past. Suddenly, he leapt into a semi-sprint, running further into the mountain of crushed concrete until he froze, reaching a hand out and grasping an invisible figure. "This was where I stopped her."

John's eyes widened as he began to understand where Sherlock was going with this. Sherlock continued, "At the trajectory she was running at, the most logical assumption to make about her choice of entrance is—"

"The south exit," John completed, turning back towards the intersection of the South and West buildings. It was so obvious; of course Sherlock would figure that out. Looking back, Sherlock was grinning, knowing his point had gotten through. With that, the two exchanged a knowing glance before sprinting onwards.

When they had reached the shaded area of the south exit, breathing heavily and laughing at each other, Alice was already there, resting her back against the wall, her olive green dress contrasting against the dark window of the South building. "Took you long enough," she grinned, but Sherlock ignored her entirely. Rather, he was more interested in what she was sitting on.

"There," Sherlock huffed, pointing behind John. He turned around to see a black bicycle leaning inconspicuously against the wall. "That's it; that's how she got here."

"Are you sure?" John began to question, looking around the south exit for its potential owners. "I mean, that could be anybody's bike, so—"

But Sherlock didn't bother listening. Just as Alice hopped off the seat, he grabbed the bike off the wall, testing its brakes and wheels. "This is it."

"So where are her belongings?" Alice asked, her voice from behind him slightly resonating against the walls.

Sherlock studied the bike momentarily. The items had to be there somewhere; the girl wouldn't have had time to put her things anywhere else. It was there; he just had to find it. With that, he kicked up the bike stand and began to walk further down the south exit.

"Where are you going?" John called out.

"St. Bart's labs."

"You can't take that; that's evidence."

"Precisely," Sherlock countered, "which, by default, means Anderson will ruin it. Preemptively, I'll save the trouble and take it now."

"Alright," John sighed, "just don't let Lest—"

"Hey!" one of the patrolling police officer called out towards them. Obviously a newbie if he couldn't recognize the Sherlock Holmes, but still blatantly stupid enough to follow all orders to the exact letter. "What do you think you're doing there? This area is off limits."

"Go!" Sherlock called out, tossing the bike towards John and darting past the cop.

It had been years since Dr. John Hamish Watson had ridden a bike, and as he flung himself on top of the metal apparatus, there was the mild anxiety of chance: what if he didn't remember? But in all honesty, it was something he had never forgotten; a second later, he was flying past the cop, following Sherlock through alleyways and secret side-streets to who knows where.

As usual.


	10. Chapter 10: Black Bike

**Chapter 10: Black Bike**

"I see you enjoyed that," Sherlock smirked as he held the door to St. Bart's lab open.

"Yeah," John chuckled, steering the black bike into the room. The exhilaration of their "escape" from the ignorant patrol officer still left adrenaline running through his veins. Beads of sweat lined his skin, his short locks left pasted against his forehead. But there was light in his eyes; what a chase! While Sherlock took to the rooftops, John followed down on the streets, the bicycle racing through cars and pedestrians; the copper never stood a chance.

"It's been a while since I rode a bike; almost thought I had forgotten how."

"Don't be silly," Sherlock replied bluntly. "Riding a bicycle is a form of implicit memory; once you perform the action enough, your brain never forgets the procedure. Outside of the obvious differences in physical movement, it's like making tea. Your memory may not be stellar, but—"

"Where do you want the pushbike?" John interrupted, not quite in the mood for a lecture on his memory from the man who never forgot anything.

Sherlock took one look around the room before making his decision. "Over there," he directed, pointing over to the far-side of the lab's table.

As Sherlock prepared his microscopes and booted up the analyzing computers, John walked the contraption over, leaning the toptube and the seat against the white edge. It was a good bike in very good condition, considering it had witnessed the collapse of the North building from afar. But it was still just a bike; black metal, black seat cushion, black handbrakes, there was nothing to distinguish it from any other bicycle in London. There was no evidence that the bicycle had really belonged to the mysterious nineteen year old girl currently lying in the mortuary. Hell, it could have been anybody's bike; they had kidnapped somebody's bicycle.

"Sherlock," John began to protest lightly, but he stopped. Sherlock's lean figure was sitting in the same chair he always sat in when doing lab work, his head cocked the same way as he did when in deep thought. It was a familiar sight, a sign of regularity, but it was not the same. Even under the artificial lights of the lab, Sherlock's skin looked abnormally pale; with his sleeves rolled up, what could be seen of his forearms were still covered in sickly purple and yellowing bruises, scratches running alongside them. While his blue eyes still focused with heavy determination and deep thought, he looked tired. Sharp shadows were cast along his face, hollowing out his cheeks and revealing the dark circles now plaguing his eyes. Under the tumultuous mass of dark curls, still wildly in disarray after running across London, the cloth bandage clung to his forehead; a grim reminder of his condition. No matter how much he protested, Sherlock was not okay; maybe mentally he was, but his body…

John sighed, a tinge of guilt bleeding into his thoughts. He had actually let Sherlock run across the rooftops of London after being in a coma for two days; what kind of doctor was he? He should have never let him go the Business Square that afternoon; he should have never let him leave the flat at all. Sherlock Holmes needed rest, and now it was time to remedy the situation.

"Sherlock," John started over.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied without even looking up, already madly typing something into the computers.

"Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

"It's already six…when do you think you'll be ready to go back to the flat?"

"Go on without me."

"No," John kept trying, "I can wait until you're ready."

"Then you're going to be here all night," Sherlock remarked.

"Sherlock," John finally admonished in a more instructive tone, making Sherlock look up at him with a bored expression. Obviously he was going to put up a fight. "You were in a coma for two days, and you just got out of the hospital this morning. You say you're fine, and I believe you, but you need rest."

"I need nothing of the sort," Sherlock countered, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, you do," John argued. "Your body was put under severe stress; it's still recovering from trauma. Please, just—"

"Just because you normal people can't seem to operate after 'traumatic events' doesn't mean I have to follow your silly expectations."

"Just take a break."

"No," Sherlock snapped with irritation.

"Look, I'm not just going to sit here and watch you over-exert yourself."

"Then don't just sit here and don't watch me. I don't need you or your incessant nagging."

The moment Sherlock realized what he said, his face fell. John stiffened, his back holding up into a military form. His mouth tightened into a thin line, his eyes coldly staring Sherlock down. The weary lines showed on his face, summing up the three days of concern he had had for his friend. Although he knew this was exactly the sort of thing Sherlock would say, he couldn't help but feel…irritated. He was his friend; he cared. But sometimes it was so hard to try and help the sociopathic genius who didn't need anybody.

"John," Sherlock said, awkwardly trying to relinquish the situation. "You know I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't," John muttered. He was tired, and this was the last thing he needed. "If you don't need me, I'll come back later."

"John," Sherlock called as his friend headed towards the door.

"No, it's alright," John said somewhat harshly. "I am a doctor in a hospital, after all; I'm sure somebody here will need me. In fact, they might even take my advice."

"John!"

John listened as the door slammed behind him, striding far enough down the hall to know Sherlock wouldn't be able to see him. Leaning against a wall, he sighed. He was tired, just too tired to deal with Sherlock at the moment. Three days of worrying incessantly drained him and his patience. Now that Sherlock was awake and, apparently, alright, he should have been able to relax a little bit. Nothing catastrophic was going to happen to his friend in St. Bart's lab; everything was going to be alright. But the doctor in John kept telling him something was wrong. Even though all the evidence pointed to everything being alright, there was something wrong.

With another sigh, John conceded to the fact that maybe he was being paranoid. What he needed was a distraction; something to take his mind off Sherlock Holmes and his bloody ego. With that, he bounced off the wall and began to make his way towards the emergency ward.

He was a doctor in a hospital after all.

* * *

"You didn't need to do that," Alice said quietly, her apparition suddenly appearing beside the door. Under the fluorescent lights, she was a ghostly pale color; only her dark hair contrasted against the white glare of the lab's walls. With one arm crossing her waist and the other bringing her hand to her lip, she watched him in deep thought. Almost apologetically, she continued. "He was only trying to help you."

"His worrying," Sherlock countered methodically, "is the last thing that will help us figure out your identity."

With a stolid expression, he stood up and slowly made his way over to the black bicycle. But Alice could see through his attempts at seeming neutral; his eyes shifted slightly towards her as he moved, and she could see it: regret. He regret what had he said to John, and now he had to pay for it in solitude. As Alice carefully walked towards him, loose strands of hair billowing out behind her, Sherlock could feel her eyes upon him; she was only a hallucination, but he felt her looking right through him with an eerie understanding of things. Her presence alone was already strange…

"What's the rush?" she asked lightly as Sherlock hoisted the bicycle onto the table's surface. Dark eyes reflecting a worried glance, she placed her hand soothingly on his forearm. "You know he's right; you're going to need rest soon. So why are you getting so defensive at John's suggestions?"

He didn't even look at her, choosing to ignore her existence for the moment. Brushing her hand off, he grabbed a pair of tweezers from the counter and began to pick away at the bicycle's tires. His elongated fingers operated with great finesse, scraping away fine layers of sediment until shapely chunks loosened from the rubber and fell onto some slides. Alice quietly observed his actions, knowing part of his taciturnity was to spite her. It was only when Sherlock slid the slides into the computer did she hazard a comment.

"Composition analysis?" she remarked, already knowing she was right.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered, pressing a button and allowing the computer to whirl to life, racing through comparisons of bacteria and pollens and dirt samples. "Although, it's not really necessary."

"I was going to say; just looking at this bicycle should give you enough clues."

"Precisely," Sherlock murmured, casting her a loose look from under the shadows of the bandage.

"Do you want to do this, or shall I?" she challenged him with a charming smile, her dark eyes lit brilliantly.

"Allow me."

Sherlock launched off his stool and positioned himself before the bicycle. Scanning the black frame once over with his eyes, he formulated his thoughts. Alice watched his observations, pulling a hand towards her small mouth in contemplation. A moment of silence passed, nothing between them but the buzz of the florescent lights above them and the whirling of the lab's computer. But Alice knew: this was the calm before the storm, and Sherlock was about to hit the ground running.

"Race bike: thin, sleek, definitely not a vehicle meant for purely recreational use." He hooked his hand under the frame and lifted it up, weighing it momentarily before placing it back down. "Light frame: carbon fibers used for a strong support with less weight. The steer is narrow, except for the gear shift… Perfect for a girl your size, but not meant for anyone bigger; it's a personalized fit, much more than any recreational cyclist would consider. There are brake grips along the handles of the steer, but rather than connect them directly to the wheels, they are integrated into the frame itself to reduce drag. The chain is integrated into the frame as well, probably for the same purpose. Pedals are situated closer towards the bottom bracket of the bike than usual for efficient use. The crank by the bottom bracket has two chain rings: normal for any bike, but the gearing is shorter, meaning gear shifts are faster. This bicycle was designed purely for speed; definitely not for an amateur.

"John used this earlier, so taking finger prints off the handles of the steer is out of the question; but, there are still imprints of its previous owner elsewhere." Sherlock was beginning to talk faster and faster as he went, the deductions racing through his mind at frightening speeds. "Take the edge of the pedals: there are flakes of skin on the back edge that correspond to the scrapes on her shins, confirming that this was the mode of transportation Claireborne used to get to the Business Square. At this point, some imbecile would ask 'how do we know this was _her_ pushbike and not some stolen property she used?' Simple: look at the seat and the steer's handles. The seat is strong, but it has molded slightly under the weight of a single user. The handles are faded slightly from the same pair of hands grasping them in exactly the same place for…three years.

"And, for good measure," Sherlock dropped the bicycle onto the floor and motioned towards Alice, who nodded with understanding. As a hallucination of Sherlock Holmes' mind, she would be the precise size of the real Alice Claireborne; a perfect replica of her body. With him holding the bike upright, she gracefully swung over the frame and took her place on the seat. It was a perfect fit.

"What else?" she asked as she slipped off the seat, allowing Sherlock access to the bicycle. However, rather than place it back onto the lab's white table, he flipped it over, positioning the wheels towards the ceiling.

"Tires narrow and lacking deep ridges: not a mountain bike. The rubber is on the thin side so they'll be faster, but need to be replaced more often. In fact, they are changed often: the bolts attaching them to the frame have left the carbon scratched quite a bit: this bicycle has been used often enough in the last three years for an excessive amount of tire changes. Judging by the silver band along the edges and the metallic supports, they were replaced recently, but there is still enough sediment packed into the grooves to be analyzed. Just by scraping off the first layers, I can already tell there her travel patterns." Rubbing a finger into the grooves, Sherlock scraped away some of the filth. "Sediment layers are made only with sediment: there is no dirt. So, we know this was only ridden in the city and kept off the greenery."

Sherlock finally paused, compiling the information he had just gained and storing it in his memory, before proceeding to connect the ideas. Alice reached out and ran a finger along the sleek black frame. "This is a nice bike," she murmured under her breath, admiring its structure.

"This is more than just a nice bike," Sherlock snapped. "This is a highly specialized race bike. No child would be given a bicycle like this; it's expensive, and it's molded in such a way that you couldn't just go into a shop and pick it off the rack. I doubt any other person could use this; it's been personalized to cyclist's body in such a way. And this belongs to a nineteen year old school girl? No; it fits a nineteen year old girl's body, but it's not meant for an academic."

"You're right," she concurred. "An academic wouldn't have picked a race bike like this; it needs too much attention. Frequent tire changes, unnecessary carbon scratches. No, she would have used a town bike: more durable, easier to maintain."

"Precisely," Sherlock said quietly, placing his hands together and resting them against his chin. "She wasn't just a school girl, and she wasn't at the Business Square by chance; I'm positive about that now. All that's left is—"

"The phone, the ring, and anything else she had on her," Alice completed, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"She would have stashed it somewhere on this bicycle." Sherlock kneeled before the upside-down bicycle, running his fingers along the frame.

"It has to be in the pushbike," Alice stated quietly, although she already aware he knew that. "She wouldn't have had time to put it anywhere else."

"There are no seams in the carbon," he muttered, still tracing the black material as he searched. "The most common place to hide things would be in the main support of the frame; a compartment of some sorts. But this design doesn't allow for that; at least, not conveniently. And the seat would be inaccessible from where she was—"

Sherlock cut himself off, his face contorting slightly stared directly at the back wheel. He ran his fingers along the wheel, causing it to slowly spin around the central bolt. Following a trail, he studied the crank and the bottom bracket. Alice watched as a thought dart across his eyes, a focused determination now taking over. Without a word, he reached towards the steer's handle, twisted the gear shift with loud clicks, and began to rotate the pedals, forcing the wheels to spin quickly.

"What do you hear?" Sherlock asked Alice.

"Barely anything," she replied, tilting her head as she listened to the lab. Under the occasional beeps of the analysis computer, there was the whoosh of rushing air as the chain looped itself around the crank with nothing but the faint clicking of metal. "It's a quiet bike, probably because the chain is shorter."

"What _don't_ you hear, then?" he tried again, now somewhat annoyed that his own projection was missing his point. He pedaled the bicycle faster, waiting for her to understand. For a moment, she stared at him, searching his pale eyes as they watched her expectantly. Blinking twice, she took a deep breath.

"Gears," she sighed, glancing down towards the steer's handles. "The gears aren't shifting."

"That's because there aren't any gears," Sherlock remarked, abruptly stopping the pedals and flipping the pushbike back to its proper stance. "She had them removed a long time ago, probably when she first got it; but, she kept the gear shift, which, compared to the rest of the bike, is extremely bulky."

With that being said, he twisted the gear shift forcefully and tore the carbon encasing off the steer's handle. He gave a dark smirk towards Alice as he emptied its contents into the palm of his left hand: a small red Motorola flip phone, a ring, and a set of gold keys attached on a silver ring.

Alice gave a chuckle. "Very good, Sherlock."

Before he could give a smart response, the computer behind them gave an electronic shriek: the results. Sherlock leapt to the computer, his eyes quickly scanning through the data before slamming the desk in frustration.

"What?" Alice asked, circling around the lab table to glance at the screen herself.

"Concrete!" Sherlock hollered into the air. "Concrete! All this data tells me is what concrete is composed of. This could come from anywhere in London!"

"Calm down," she argued, glaring at him with mild irritation before turning back towards the screen. "This isn't all useless."

"Well it is right now!" he was still practically shouting. "Unless I have something to reference it to, there's nothing—"

There was a knock at the door, followed by a muffled "Sherlock?" At the lack of reply, the door creaked open; John stuck his foot in through the crack and shouldered his way into the lab.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "I heard you shouting about something."

"Oh," Sherlock replied quietly, unsure of what to say. "I'm fine."

John looked around the lab awkwardly, still feeling guilty about their previous altercation. But from the apologetic look on Sherlock's long face, the doctor knew there was really no need to say anything on the past matter; what was done was done, and there was no point in dwelling. Still, he felt like he should try and make amends.

"I was by the front desk when Bomb Squad dropped off the samples," John announced, an armful of plastic baggies and small containers balanced against his chest. "I thought I would save time and just bring them down myself. Where do you want them?"

"Take them back to the flat," Sherlock said suddenly, shoving the contents hidden within the bicycle's black handle into his pocket. "I'll analyze them there."

John glanced at him, his surprise resulting in a confused expression. "I thought you said you weren't coming back tonight."

"Changed my mind," the detective huffed as he strode towards the door, hoping John wouldn't take the following lie too seriously: "I'm hungry."


End file.
